


Haunting

by peculiarise



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abandonment, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Artist Steve Rogers, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Bipolar Disorder, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bullying, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Jewish Character, Cheesy steve, Childhood Friends, Consensual Underage Sex, Daddy Issues, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Divorce, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Hair Braiding, Heavy Drinking, Hipster Bucky Barnes, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Law School, M/M, Men Crying, Mental Health Issues, Military Backstory, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Naked Cuddling, Overdosing, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Roommates, Separations, September 11 Attacks, Sharing a Bed, Small Towns, Smoking, Smut, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, bucky is such a fucking overacheiver too, drama student bucky, it isn't a huge part of the story but it does happen in it so, kind of?? not really?? hes just a normal sized guy, kinda not really he just dresses better than he feels, law student steve, not in a sexual way like bucky legit has the worst daddy issues on the planet, sarah rogers is a fucking saint, these tags are a MESS goodbye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7116994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiarise/pseuds/peculiarise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's June 8, 2001, and Steve Rogers gets a new neighbor, and he knows only four things about him:</p><p>1) He's 9 years old<br/>2) He's from the city<br/>3) His mom likes making pies<br/>4) His eyes are very blue</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a wip and at first i said i'll update around friday-sunday and i'm trying to get better at it but it's probably just best to bookmark this to get update notifs since i'm very inconsistent bc of work and stuff
> 
> For any questions or if you wanna talk to me about the fic then come visit me at [my blog](satinmilk.tumblr.com) :))))  
> Here's the post for the fic on my tumblr, it would be sososo greatly appreciated if you reblogged it [here ](http://satinmilk.tumblr.com/post/145781916396/author-peculiarise-satinmilk-on-tumblr-title)  
> Also here's a playlist for the fic [here ](http://8tracks.com/xfilesbucky/haunting-track-deluxe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It was terrible. All of the things we couldn’t share. The room was filled with conversations we weren’t having.'  
> — Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

It's June 8, 2001, and Steve Rogers gets a new neighbor, and he knows only four things about him:

1) He's 9 years old  
2) He's from the city  
3) His mom likes making pies  
4) His eyes are very blue

The first two Steve's mom told him, and the last two he figures out on his own when Steve rides his bike down the half-mile stretch of country road to the newly-occupied house. There's a moving truck in the makeshift driveway that's simply tire tracks that wore the grass down to dirt. Sitting on the third step of the porch is a boy, holding a baby girl on his lap despite the sweltering heat, face devoid of any emotion. 

Steve plants his feet on the road and stares across the yard, catching his teeth on his bottom lip and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

The boy and the baby sitting on the steps don't seem to notice him, their eyes trained on the men unloading boxes and furniture and carrying them into the house. It's an old house; quite big, white, with a large porch and yard perfect for playing in. In the windows are cobwebs and white lace curtains, and the light is on in the small circular window at the very top of the house.

It's strange for Steve, seeing the house become occupied, because for as long as he could remember, it had been completely abandoned. Not a lot of people live out here in the middle of nowhere, his town's population being a little over a mere 500, and most houses were just old and rotting and empty. 

"Hey, what do you want?" A loud voice breaks Steve out of his observational trance, eyes snapping back to the porch steps. The boy is now standing, baby girl perched up on his hip, one of his hands underneath her thighs and the other gripping at her waist protectively. 

The first thing Steve notices is that the boy has very, very blue eyes. Even from his distance, he can tell they're as blue as the clear summer sky above them and seem to literally sparkle in the bright sunlight. His hair is the color of the black licorice Steve's mom likes to eat when she's sad, and the boy's skin is pale, almost milky or porcelain. 

"I'm Steve," Steve finally calls back, small hands tightening around his bike handlebars. "I live down the road in the blue house." 

"Well stop standing there like a weirdo, Steven. Come on up here," the boy says, and Steve is quick to oblige. He carefully swings his legs off his bike and rolls it into the healthy, bright green grass of the yard. He lets go of the handlebars and winces at the loud thud the bike makes against the ground, but keeps walking up the yard, weeds tickling at his skinny ankles. 

"I'm James, but call me Bucky," Bucky says, lips pulling into a wide smile full of little sharp teeth when Steve finally gets to the porch. "This is Becca. She's two." Bucky bounces Becca on his hip and she lets out a squeal, eyes as large and blue as Bucky's, framed with thick, long lashes. 

"Hi," Steve murmurs, holding out a small finger for Becca. She takes it and immediately pulls it to her mouth, but Steve doesn't mind. He loves babies. His friend Sam has a baby sister as well, and every Tuesday after school, Steve's mom babysits her. 

"So how old are you, Steven?" Bucky wonders, eyes tearing away from the sight of Becca chewing on Steve's finger. They lock onto Steve's face, watchful, observant. 

"My name isn't Steven. And I'm eight," Steve says, but he smiles sheepishly at the name anyway. 

"I'm nine," Bucky says proudly, pushing his slender shoulders back. "Wanna be friends?" 

Steve is quick to nod, smile widening, and that's where it begins. 

\---

Steve's summer is filled with nothing but Bucky.

Their days are usually made up of riding their bikes to the woods and exploring, or swimming in the big lake surrounded by trees, or running around in empty fields, or laying in the middle of their street at night and staring up at the stars. 

"In Brooklyn, you can't see the stars like you can out here," Bucky says. Steve hums. He can't imagine not being able to see the stars. 

"Why not?" Steve asks, turning his head to look over at Bucky, who is staring up at the dark sky. The moon shines bright down on them and Bucky's skin looks smooth, and he seems to positively glow. Steve takes a deep breath to get rid of the little flutter in his stomach he seems to get every time he looks at Bucky. The giddiness he feels goes away, tucked into his lungs, only to resurface again. He doesn't mind, though, thinks the pressure feels nice. 

"Mom says it's because of the pollution," Bucky explains, "and all the lights. Like, you can see the stars, but not very much." 

"That stinks," Steve sighs. Bucky nods in agreement and brings a hand from resting on his stomach, to grabbing Steve's and intertwining their fingers. This isn't uncommon for them, and Steve likes it very much. Bucky's hand is a little bigger than Steve’s, and soft and warm, and he feels quite grounded when they hold hands. They rest on the cracked gravel road between their bodies.

"When does school start here?" Bucky asks after a while of silence. 

"Sometime in September, I think," Steve says, eyebrows furrowing. "Don't wanna go back. We won't even be in the same class together." 

Steve knows he'll still be in the same class as Sam and Peggy, his other two best friends, since the school is so small. He's been in the same class with them since kindergarten, one teacher to each grade. 

"It won't be all that bad," Bucky assures Steve, rolling onto his side. He uses his jacket to cushion his elbow so that the gravel won't hurt it, propping his face up on a small hand. Steve turns his head and looks up at Bucky. 

"We'll have recess together, and lunch," Steve informs him. He knows Bucky is nervous to start at a new school, but there's only a maximum of fifteen kids in his class. Steve's mom has laughed before about how their town technically shouldn't even be on the state map, considering how small it is. 

"Do we have assigned seats at lunch?"

"What?"

"Assigned seats. At my old school we had to sit with our class." 

Steve purses his lips outward in a slight frown, confused. 

"No? That happens? We just - we eat outside. On the playground," he says, squeezing Bucky's hand tighter. "Me 'nd Sam, and Peggy too." 

"That's... way cooler than at my old school."

"Your school sounds boring."

"It was, yeah." 

They fall into a peaceful silence after that, the only sound around them being the chirping of crickets and the faint hoot of an owl from the woods across the field. The rough road underneath Steve's messy blond hair hurts the back of his head, but he endures it, holds onto Bucky's hand as tight as he can and counts the stars. Every time Bucky lets out a small sigh when Steve squeezes his hand, Steve has to start counting again. He doesn't mind. 

"Wanna sleep over?" Steve asks after a while. Bucky only nods, because it's late and he knows Becca can be awoken if he tries to go home. Also, Steve knows that Bucky likes to get away from his dad sometimes. Steve's only known Bucky for a month or so, and in that time, he's only met his dad twice. He doesn't need to meet him anymore to know Bucky's judgement is correct, though. He trusts Bucky. 

After a while, Bucky takes his hand away from Steve's and gets up. 

"'M sleepy. Let's go," he mumbles, rubbing his left eye with a hand. Bucky is one year older than Steve but he's just as short and slender, with little wrists and ankles. He has a small nose, too, that Steve likes to poke and kiss like his mom does to him. It makes Bucky giggle. 

Bucky helps Steve up from the street and they ride their bikes down the flat road, cool air blowing back Steve's hair and Bucky's jacket fanning out behind him like a cape. They pass by Bucky's house, only the light for the front porch turned on, everything else dark. Steve watches as Bucky acts as if he doesn't see the house and it's not new - Bucky does that every time they bike past, as if he's trying to forget the place exists. 

The rest of the half mile is silent, Steve focusing on the sound of his bike wheels grinding against the gravel. He swerves to avoid a ridge in the road that could make him spill, scrape his knees on the ground, and then they're turning into Steve's dirt drive. The front window is lit up with warm, yellow light behind the white curtains his mom loves so dearly, and Steve can see the shape of his babysitter walking back and forth in front of it. She's probably waiting for them, making sure they get home safe before she stays to wait up for Steve’s mom and watch television. 

Bucky carelessly pushes his bike down into the grass before shoving his hands in the pockets of his shorts, waiting patiently for Steve to lean his bike up against the porch. Steve loves his bike too much to throw it down like Bucky does, got it for this past birthday. It's black and sleek and has mud on the wheels and it's Steve's prized possession.

Gemma, Steve's babysitter, opens the front door before they even reach it. She isn't mad, just looks somewhat bored. 

"Your mom is working until twelve tonight," Gemma says softly, ushering the two boys into the small house. Steve sighs and stares down at his feet as he toes off his sneakers by the door, one hand planted against the wall to keep his balance. 

"She work tomorrow?" Steve wonders, waiting for Bucky to finish hanging up his jacket and removing his shoes. Steve's toes curl against the cold hardwood floor, his socks having been removed with his shoes. 

"I think so. But she'll be home for when she has to babysit Jessie," Gemma replies, rubbing her knuckles against her left eye, the one with the scar underneath from when Steve was six and hit her with a wooden alphabet block. 

Steve only nods and they say their good-nights before he and Bucky make their way upstairs. 

"Can I borrow your pajamas?" Bucky asks as Steve is changing out of his clothes. He throws his shirt into the hamper and nods, points towards the dresser. Bucky knows Steve doesn't mind sharing his clothes but he asks anyway, because he knows it's the courteous thing to do. They're both practically the same height, but the flannel pajama pants Bucky puts on pool around his feet against the rough brown carpet. 

"Can you cuddle me tonight?" Steve looks down at his feet shyly, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

"'Course," Bucky says, and gets into Steve's small twin sized bed first. The sheets are planet and spaceship print and the comforter is a deep blue, with a tear at the bottom from when Steve and Bucky used it to slide down the stairs last week. Bucky turns onto his left side and faces Steve, holding the comforter up invitingly. 

"C'mon, I wanna sleep," Bucky mutters, and Steve obliges, quickly climbing into the bed next to Bucky and pressing his back against Bucky's stomach. Bucky's right arm automatically comes down and wraps around Steve's waist, Bucky's fingers kneading against the soft fabric of Steve's shirt. He tucks his chin against Steve's shoulder and they both sigh, the scent of Steve's green apple shampoo like a sleep-inducing drug to Bucky. 

"G'night, Buck," Steve whispers after some silence. He hooks his foot around Bucky's ankle and shifts a bit, getting a little more comfortable, eyes fluttering shut. Bucky doesn't say anything, but the sound of his slow breathing lets Steve know that he's already fallen asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve collapses onto the bare queen-size bed face down next to Sam and groans, arms reaching up to grab the top of the headboard. 

"I fucking hate moving. My arms hurt like hell," Steve whines, pressing his stomach into the mattress as Sam's hand begins to card through Steve's hair.

"We're almost done," Sam says softly, and Steve feels him plant a kiss on the back of his neck before Sam gets up off the bed. "'Nd at least we're out of that town." Steve doesn't respond, only inhales deeply, catches the scent of his own shampoo on the pillow his nose is pressed against.

"We don't have the kitchen stuff yet, so we'll have to order something. Pizza?" Sam wonders. Steve can hear the sound of moving boxes and then something being unzipped, presumably Sam's backpack. The other man takes Steve's silence as a yes.

Sam leaves the small bedroom and Steve is alone to swim in his own thoughts. Most of them are about finances and his mom and how he should probably check his email for anything from his professors. The fact that Steve was waitlisted certainly didn't make it any easier to find out if he had anything to prepare, especially considering he was  _ desperate _ to get into the criminal law class he signed up for.

"This is my last night before I go vegan," Steve announces when Sam walks back into the bedroom. Sam raises an eyebrow and smirks.

"You do realize that we're incredibly broke college students and being vegan is really expensive, right?" he scoffs.

"Shut up," Steve mutters, and gasps when he feels the heavy weight of Sam's body on his lower back. "That hurts."

"Massaging you. You've got the back of a ninety-year-old man," Sam murmurs. Then his hands are on Steve's shoulders, thumbs pressing above his shoulder blades. Steve tries not to moan but it doesn't work and that only encourages Sam even more.

"Artist muscles, too," Steve says softly, eyes falling shut, lashes brushing against the pillow.

Sam stops when they hear the sound of their buzzer.

"Go get it," Steve tells him, and Sam obliges, only pausing to pull on Steve's hair lightly. Steve curses him under his breath, ignores the swooping sensation he felt in his stomach at the feeling of his hair being pulled. It was an inconvenience, really, to be so close with Sam. When Steve had told his best friend about his first time with a girl (Peggy, to be exact, which did make things a bit awkward for a while) in their junior year, Sam's interrogations were relentless regarding Steve's preferences.

He didn't make Steve uncomfortable, though, as if the fact that Steve was okay enough to share a bed with him didn't make that clear. The only thing was that Sam knew a lot more about a lot of stuff than Steve did, like when he visited the city when they were seventeen for the summer and Sam realized he was pansexual. Steve didn't know what he was. He's always figured he was straight and, yeah, he didn't have a problem admitting a guy was attractive, but he had never actively been  _ attracted _ to one.

Sam comes back into the bedroom with a box of pizza and two beers, sets the bottles on Steve’s bedside table and puts the pizza box in the middle of the mattress.

“You’re going to get grease on the mattress, S,” Steve groans, but heaves himself up from his position and scoots to sit next to Sam, legs crossed and knees touching. Sam’s half of the pizza has just cheese, nothing else, but he was generous and loaded up Steve’s half with a lot of things he knew he’d like.

“Stop sticking out your tongue before you eat,” Sam scolds as he watches Steve, using his teeth to tear off a bit of cheese from his slice.

“It’s a habit, I’m sorry! You know I can’t help it!” Steve exclaims, pouting. “If you can’t accept that, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“We don’t have a couch, Steve.”

"Not yet, we don't."

Sam sighs in annoyance and silence falls between them. Steve finishes his half of the pizza before getting up, Sam following suit and throwing the box out into the hallway before they dig up their sheets and comforter out of the miscellaneous items scattered around the apartment. Steve struggles to get the sheets on, large feet tangling up in the pillow cases. He has to catch himself on the bedside table more than once and Sam smacks his head off the iron bars of the headboard, but they finally get it made nicely.

"I think I gave myself a concussion doing that," Sam mutters as he begins to undress, down to just his black briefs. Steve had set up a laundry basket in the corner as soon as they had the room, so Sam tosses his jeans and t-shirt into the basket and climbs into the cool sheets of their bed.

"It's barely past nine. Why are you getting in bed?" Steve wonders, but takes off his t-shirt as well, leaves on his socks and jeans.

"We've been moving all day. I'm exhausted," Sam replies, voice slightly muffled by the pillow. "C'mon, wanna cuddle."

"You didn't even brush your teeth."

Sam doesn't reply, just pulls the black duvet up over his head and successfully shuts out Steve's nagging. Steve rolls his eyes and walks out into the hall, grabs the pizza box and sets it on the counter before finishing up his work he started earlier. He has almost half the kitchen unpacked and organized - and it isn't much, considering he and Sam have yet to go shopping for cups and dishes and such, but he's almost done, nonetheless, and the small space is significantly less drab looking than before. He tries to keep things down so Sam can sleep in peace, and by the time he's completely finished the kitchen, it's nearly half past eleven.

Steve steps back into the entryway of the kitchen and places his hands on his hips, letting out a sharp sigh as he looks over his work. The pale yellow walls don't look nearly as dull as before with photographs on them and the red pots hanging from above the stove that were a gift from his mom add some nice color. In the back of his mind he can barely hear the sounds of Brooklyn life below, cars and people interacting on the narrow roads lit up by street lights. He and Sam didn't exactly live in the nicest part of the city, but their apartment was cheap and they weren't  _ too _ worried about getting shot on the sidewalk, so it was worth it. The money they could spend monthly on an unreasonably expensive apartment was instead going to food and paying off their tuition.

Finally, Steve allows himself to yawn, and he turns out the kitchen light before heading back to the bedroom. Sam is completely unconscious, taking up almost the entire bed. Steve shakes his head and strips down to his briefs before going to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, studying the bags under his eyes and pale skin. Shutting off the sink, he flicks off the light and climbs into bed next to Sam, cuddling up to the man's warm body. Steve noses at Sam's prominent collar bone, eyelashes fluttering over the dark skin.

It's different, falling asleep in a bed with Sam in a new apartment in a new city. Steve had never left their small town before today, and he knows he'll have a lot to adjust to. Thankfully, he's good at becoming friends with people, and Steve hopes his classes and school will bring in new friends for him and Sam. When Peggy had told them she was going to Ireland for school back in December during their senior year, Sam and Steve were devastated.

Sam's breathing lulls Steve into a deep, comfortable sleep, cuddled up against his best friend's lean body. It feels vaguely familiar as Sam shifts in his sleep and throws an arm over Steve's waist, but Steve swallows the lump in his throat and sighs deeply.

It's been years since Steve had thought of  _ him _ in more than a mere passing recollection. He wasn't going to start anytime soon. Not now. Not when he had too much going for him.

\---

Class starts in two days and Sam has already dragged Steve to a frat party, but has also successfully managed to leave Steve completely alone.

Steve adjusts the snapback on his head, pushing his hair back as he holds a red plastic cup in his other hand. It's still completely full, handed to him as soon as he walked into the door, and since he doesn't know what the awful-smelling liquid inside is, he hasn't drank it. He sits down on the third step of the staircase and places the cup next to him, knees knocking together as he presses himself against the wall when two girls go rushing up the stairs. Steve wrinkles his nose as one of them kicks the cup and the beverage spills everywhere, a little bit getting on his jeans.

So far, it's been three weeks since Steve has moved to Brooklyn, and the only acquaintance he's made outside Sam is the old lady that lives across the hall from them. He has yet to even actually speak to any of his coworkers at the bakery he got hired at, or meet a nice girl during his visits to the coffee shop a few blocks away.

"This'll get you socialized," Sam assured Steve last night, right after Steve had promptly turned down Sam's proposition to have the younger man join him on his first frat party adventure.

"I'll get socialized when school actually starts," Steve muttered, highlighting another passage in his psychology textbook.

"You don't actually become friends with  _ law students,  _ Steve, everyone knows that."

In the end, Steve caved, and now he's sitting on the staircase inside a giant fraternity house that smells like alcohol and sweat. He shoves his hands in between his thighs and rests his head against the wall next to him. The only reason he hasn't left yet is because he's Sam's designated driver, assuming he doesn't find someone to hook up with tonight. Sam usually never stays the night, though. Steve isn't counting on going home without him.

After a while, Steve stands back up and makes his way through the mass of bodies back to the living room where he last saw Sam. Steve stands up on the toes of his combat boots and squints, trying to catch sight of his friend in the dim light of the fraternity house. Finally, he finds Sam sitting on the couch with a young woman, who is practically almost on his lap and both very, obviously drunk. Steve shakes his head to himself and rushes over to Sam.

"Hey!" Steve shouts over the music. Sam immediately turns his head and his face breaks out in a large, dopey grin. The girl allows Sam to stand up and he pulls Steve into a hug.

"Stevie, there you are," Sam slurs, "this is Natasha!" The girl on the couch - Natasha, now - stands up and smiles awkwardly.

"Hi," Natasha says, looking between Steve and Sam.

"I'm Steve.” He holds out a hand for Natasha to shake and she does, Natasha’s hand smooth and warm. There’s a glint in her green eyes as she gives Steve a once-over and Steve raises a brow, quirks his lips up at the corners before he finally pulls away.

“What’re you in this fine institution for, Steve?” Natasha wonders loudly, putting her arm around Sam’s waist as the young man turns his attention away from Steve.

“Major is criminal law.”

Steve has never had to deal with this before, but he vaguely considers that Natasha is possibly hitting on him. He's not entirely sure, though - Steve can't tell if Natasha is just a person that gets comfortable around you very quickly or if pulling you down onto the couch and putting her hand on your knee is a flirting tactic. If this is part of the "college experience", Steve has yet to adjust. But he doesn't tell Natasha to take her hand away, just watches as Sam tells Natasha a story that Steve has heard many times before.

After a while, Steve gets up and goes to get a beer from the kitchen, which is littered with plastic cups and glass bottles. He stares out the window over the sink before taking a sip of his beer and heading back out to the couch, where Sam and Natasha are still talking.

"My friend James - Christ, he's got issues," Natasha says as Steve sits down. "Like, I asked him to come with me tonight, and he almost freaked out saying no."

"Why?" Sam wonders.

"Dunno. Guess he's stressed about this year. Not sure how being a drama student can be  _ that _ stressful, but..." Natasha trails off and shrugs her shoulders, takes a sip of her drink. Steve's brows furrow and he bites his bottom lip.

"James, you said his name was?" Steve asks after a few moments, and Sam leans forward to look at Steve.

"Yeah, met him in freshman year. He's my roommate. We got an apartment together this past summer," Natasha explains.

"Kinda like us," Sam muses, "where's he from?"

"Not sure. Never wants to talk about anything before college. He's a weird guy, but I love him to death."

Steve and Sam share a short look, Sam's eyes boring into Steve's, wide and thoughtful. Steve only looks away and out towards the people dancing and socializing.

_ It's just a coincidence,  _ he thinks so himself, takes a sip of his beer,  _ lots of people named James. Just a coincidence. _

\---

The water is too hot.

Steve stares down at his feet, not really seeing them, watches the way the water from the shower head hits the bottom of the tub. His toes are turning red at the ends and he curls them, brings up a hand to push his short bangs out of his eyes.

It's the weekend after his first five days of classes, and already his hands are tied. Between his criminal law class and his job at the bakery, Steve has hardly any time to himself and has seen barely any sign of Sam this past week. He wishes he had the same skills as Sam, because so far getting an English degree seems a lot easier than criminal law. Monday is when his professor, Mr. Fury, decides who will be the interns at his law firm, and Steve doesn't even want to consider the workload that could come with the position.

At least he's made some friends - Tony and Clint, who live in the apartment downstairs and are both in their last year of college. All he's gathered about Tony and Clint so far are that they're really into music and weed, and Tony hosts the college radio station at night during the week and is actually filthy rich, but that's about it.

Blinking hard to get droplets of water off his eyelashes, Steve turns off the water and gets out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his waist and walks into the bedroom, where Sam is cocooned in their shared duvet and asleep. Sighing, Steve takes off the towel and rubs it through his hair before pulling on a pair of sweats and one of Sam's t-shirts, which is a little too tight on his shoulders but fine nonetheless. He considers actually cooking dinner for once instead of ordering takeout, but there isn't enough food in the kitchen to make a fulfilling meal.

So he settles for just climbing into bed next to Sam and cuddling against him, hoping for maybe just a nap because it's still only four o'clock on the evening. Sam doesn't stir in his sleep and Steve stares over Sam's shoulder, at the window covered with blinds that look vaguely like the ones from -

_ No.  _ He's not going to think about that.

Steve doesn't fall asleep. After about thirty minutes, Sam wakes up, wondering what time it is.

"It's almost five. We're getting new curtains," Steve says flatly. Sam stills for a moment before turning over and and facing Steve, eyelids drooping and cheek imprinted with the lines from the wrinkled pillowcase.

"Any reason why?" he wonders softly, thick brows furrowing.

"Just - just, we're getting new ones. I don't like these. Too dusty," Steve says. Sam studied him for a moment before nodding once in agreement.

"Get ready. We're going out tonight. Natasha wants me to bring you," he murmurs, wiggling out of the duvet. Steve finds he's naked and his throat tightens just a little bit as he stares up at Sam's back, shoulder blades moving closer as Sam stretches his toned arms upward.

"Why?" Steve asks.

"'Cos she likes you, I guess. Can't imagine why. You need to get out anyway. Make some friends."

"I already have made friends. Besides, if it's just us and Natasha, there isn't really anyone to make friends with," Steve says, but gets out of bed anyway. He walks over to the dresser he shares with Sam and opens his designated drawer, pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and strips himself of his comfy clothes.

"She's bringing other people, too. Not just herself," Sam says, walking past Steve to go the bathroom. He's already gotten dressed, Steve still buttoning his jeans. Steve doesn't say anything in return, just puts on his boots and looks in the full-length mirror propped up on the wall to see if his hair looks acceptable. It really doesn't, but he pushes his bangs back off his forehead and hopes it'll suffice to make a good impression on Natasha's friends.

"Where are we even going?" Steve wonders. He walks into the bathroom and Sam backs up to the wall so Steve can brush his teeth.

"Some bar a few blocks away. Walk or drive?"

"Walk. Don't need to be more broke than we already are."

"Okay. You look hot while sweaty anyway."


	3. Chapter 3

When Steve and Sam get to the bar, it's already packed full of bodies, and Steve thinks he's never seen this many people crowded into such a small space before, not even when he went to church. He has no idea how they'll find Natasha and her friends in this crowd. Sam moves away from Steve and pulls out his phone, presses himself against the glass window next to the door and thumbs through the device before putting it to his ear and looks over the heads of people. 

"I'm here," Sam says, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "Okay." He hangs up.

"She's in the back, by the restrooms," he tells Steve, and they push their way through the people, voices loud over the music playing around them and football games on the flatscreens hanging on the walls. Steve cringes as a large, sweaty man is shoved against him and when they finally break through the bodies, Steve lets out a large breath he had been holding in. His eyes immediately catch Natasha, sitting in a rounded booth in a dark corner.

The only people accompanying her are a pretty brunette girl and a guy with tired eyes and a blank face. Natasha raises her hand and waves, face breaking out into a large smile. Sam waves back and pulls Steve along with him to the booth, both sliding in next to Natasha, Steve on the outside with Sam squished between he and Natasha.

"Hey! Glad you can make it!" Natasha exclaims, grinning. "This is Wanda and Bruce. Everyone else is showing up sometime soon." Steve tentatively waves at the two across from him and allows himself to smile, something small and awkward because that's how he feels in this moment. It's not that he's an antisocial person - he just feels a bit out of his element right now, considering he's never been to a bar before and he's always just grown up with people, never really  _ met _ them.

Wanda seems nice enough, though, and Bruce seems a bit too awkward. They all join into conversations, Wanda telling Steve about her first day in Professor Fury’s class - an experience that ultimately made her decide to change everything and become a biologist, since that's what she was best at in secondary school, anyway. Later on, he's surprised to see Tony and Clint join them, Tony immediately taking a seat next to Steve and putting a hand on his thigh. Steve only blushes and sips at his Coke, since he isn't old enough to drink and doesn't want to risk using his fake ID to get some alcohol.

"Dunno where Dot and James are," Natasha muses after a while, looking at Sam and Steve apologetically. "James is never on time."

"It's fine. We're not going anywhere, anyway," Sam chuckles.

"Having fun?" Tony whispers in Steve's ear, lips brushing against the skin. Steve's cheeks flush and his eyes flutter shut for a moment before he opens them again. He curses himself for getting flustered easily.

"Yeah," Steve says, "didn't expect to see you and Clint here. I didn't know you were friends with Natasha."

"Well, I'm more acquainted with Buc - James," Tony says, shrugging. "But we all found each other at some point." 

There was the name again. James. Steve's been progressively hearing the name more and more as he sits at the booth, the name "James" constantly rolling off of everyone's tongue except his and Sam's. From what he's heard, he can gather that James is basically the head of the group, and that nobody knows much about him despite this. It piques Steve's curiosity, but at the same time stresses him out. He knows he has no reason to feel like this and that "James" is just some mysterious guy that has a knack for being nearly an hour late, but he still can't help but nervously chew on his ice cubes and even steal a few sips of Tony's whiskey.

Steve's intently listening to Tony tell a story about the time a bird shit on Clint's head when Natasha's phone starts ringing, the marimba tone loud enough to hear over the increase of voices in the bar. He watches as Natasha brings the phone to her hear, a crease between her eyebrows, before Natasha's eyes dart to the crowd and her face breaks out into a large grin.

"James and Dot are here," she explains when she hangs up, and Wanda sighs in relief while everyone else goes back to chatting. Sam and Natasha have been holding a conversation for a good while now and Steve can see something blossoming between the two.

First he sees a short, chubby blonde with a soft face and pretty eyes and a nice smile, who must be Dot.

"Where's James?" Clint wonders.

"Restroom. He'll be out in a second. Sorry we're so late, I got held up at work and he was picking me up," Dot says. Her voice is sweet and high-pitched, a bit girlish, but Steve likes it nonetheless. Natasha begins introducing he and Sam when suddenly -

"James! There you are!" Tony exclaims. Steve immediately looks up to the end of the table and -

Bright blue eyes. Bright blue eyes framed with long, thick dark lashes underneath thick eyebrows that curve gently. Sharp cheekbones and an even sharper jawline that could cut marble and pink, pink lips. Light, milky skin dusted with dark stubble, the same color as the jaw-length hair framing the sharp face.

And Steve hasn't seen him in years -  _ years -  _ but he  _ knows  _ it's him. He recognizes those eyes. He could recognize them anywhere. And he can't fucking breathe.

Next thing he knows, he's pushing Tony out of the booth and rushing over to the restroom, heartbeat loud in his ears. He shoves a stall door open and doesn't bother to latch it, sinks to his knees and throws up in the toilet, temples throbbing.

_ It's him, it's him, it's him. _

He had thought that was all over and done with. It's been so many years, so many years of silence and a lot of them filled with shoving the memories into the deepest parts of his brain. Four years of high school helped Steve form new memories, helped him forget, but he's dry-heaving now and everything is flashing back in his mind.

Steve wipes his hands on his cheeks and eyes, drags his hand underneath his nose and catches the cold snot before it gets to his upper lip. Gasping for breath and mouth tasting like sick, Steve frantically reaches upward and manages to grab some toilet paper, ripping it and wiping it across his lips.

He hears the bathroom door open, slam against the tiled wall and then there's familiar arms around his shoulders.

"Steve? Steve, you okay babe?" Sam's voice sounds like Steve is underwater and his eyes are shut tight.  _ He's out there, he's out there. _

"I-it's h-him," Steve cries, leaning further back against Sam's stomach. "S-Sam, it's  _ him." _

"Yeah," is all Sam says. Steve can hear the strain in his voice. It's been years since Sam has spoken to him as well; they were a unit, with Peggy there too. But it's different for Steve and even Sam knows that.

"I-I thought that h-he w-was gone."

"Me too, babe." Steve pulls his knees to his chest, cringes at the way his mouth tastes and how heavy his tongue feels. His throat burns and his head is pounding.

"He's still out there. Don't think he noticed you," Sam murmurs, "we're going home. Tony's driving us. You can't stay here."

"N-no, I'll be fine S-Sam," Steve sniffs, shoulders shaking as he takes a deep breath and stares at his feet, toes of his boots angled towards each other. "Did y-you tell him it was m-me?"

"I didn't. And no. We're leaving," Sam says firmly, and moves his hands underneath Steve's armpits. "C'mon, get up. Let's get you cleaned up and then we'll go."

"I'm s-sorry," Steve stutters, allowing himself to be pulled up. Sam wraps an arm around his waist and they walk carefully over to the sinks after Sam flushes the toilet, Steve's legs shaking.

"Don't be sorry. Not your fault. I thought I was gonna shit myself when I saw him," Sam chuckles. He turns on the water at one of the sinks and cups his hands to catch some of the liquid. Steve's nose wrinkles at the gross city water smell, but opens his mouth when Sam lifts his hands up to Steve and takes the water in. Steve swishes it around in his mouth for a moment before gargling and spitting it back into the dirty restroom sink, wiping his mouth on his back of his hand.

Sam pushes Steve's bangs out of his eyes before they leave the restroom, arm still tight around Steve's waist. They completely avoid going back to the table, just weave their way through the mass of bodies until they get to the door and out onto the sidewalk. The streetlight hurts Steve's eyes and makes his head feel worse, and he genuinely feels like he's stuck underwater and drowning when he meets eyes with Tony, who's leaning up against his car waiting patiently. He opens the door to the back seat for Steve and Sam and Steve practically falls onto the faux leather, cheek smashing against the cool and rubbery material, legs folding up to his chest. Sam snorts and attempts to push Steve over but doesn't succeed, Steve quickly becoming dead weight.

"What happened back there, kid?" Tony asks once he starts the car.

"Dunno," Steve lies, keeping his eyes closed. He hope Tony doesn't get pulled over, since Steve isn't buckled in and falling asleep in the back seat of his car. He seriously owes Tony.

"It's just - you took one look at Bucky and I literally thought you had seen death itself," Tony laughed. Steve feels the car stop moving, stuck at a stoplight.

"Nah, must've just... bad timing..." Steve murmurs. His eyelashes brush against the seat and his lips drag across the material. "Hope he doesn't hate me or somethin'. Wasn' him..."

Neither Sam nor Tony reply but Steve doesn't pay much attention, just focuses on his own breathing. He doesn't think he's going to throw up again, but the way Tony's car is jostling him around certainly doesn't make him feel any better. The three of them are silent and the only sound in the car is that of the AC going. Steve can feel Sam's fingers tracing the seam of Steve's jeans on his calf gently, comforting him. He needs to go home and have a shower or something. Text Natasha an apology.

The car stops after a few more minutes and then Sam is coaxing Steve to sit up, telling him they're back at the apartment and need to go inside. Steve groans and sits up, stares down at his own thighs as he scoots out of the car and onto the sidewalk in front of the entrance to their apartment.

"Thanks, Tony. Let them know that we're really sorry about the whole thing..." Sam says softly, and Steve mindlessly walks over to the chipping red door and leans against it, eyes fluttering shut. He waits for Sam to finish talking to Tony, lets the cool wood of the door nurse his overheated cheeks. All Steve really wants right now is to shower and down a bottle of mouthwash and then sleep for three days.

"Thanks again. See you around, Buck," Sam says, and Steve's breathing hitches. He doesn't dare open his eyes, just corners himself more against the door and listens to the sound of Tony driving away.

"Bucky was with us?" Steve asks as soon as they get upstairs. Sam looks at him with startled eyes and toes off his shoes, bites his bottom lip.

"Yeah. Wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess," Sam murmurs, looking away. He turns on the hall light and stretches his arms upward.

"So... he knows it's me?" Steve's heart is beating wildly in this chest again and his breathing is becoming restricted, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. Sam's eyebrows shoot up and he quickly walks over to Steve and pulls him to his chest, Steve pressing his face into the crook of Sam's neck and shoulder, lips brushing against the warm skin.

"Yeah," Sam whispers. He brings a hand up to the back of Steve's head and runs his fingers through his hair gently, bitten nails scratching lightly at Steve's scalp and sending chills down his body. "Let's get you in the shower and then bed. We'll talk tomorrow, if you want."

"Did you know he'd be there?" Steve asks, shutting his eyes tightly.

"No. I didn't," Sam replies, and Steve only nods. He pulls away from Sam and they walk to their bedroom, Sam carefully stripping Steve of his clothes. There's a bit of vomit on the collar of Steve's shirt and his knees are damp from crouching on the nasty bar restroom tiles. He pulls off Steve's shoes and socks, tossing them to the side, undressing him until Steve is down to his briefs.

"Want me to get in with you?" Sam wonders. Steve nods once, staring down at his toes as they go into the bathroom. Sam gets the shower started and Steve takes off his briefs, stepping past the curtain and underneath the hot water. It takes a moment for Sam to join him, but when he does, Steve's hair is immediately being washed carefully.

The silence between them is comfortable, Steve too tired to make an effort in starting a conversation and Sam being content with lack of words. Steve lets Sam wash his hair and body before he gets out, leaves Sam in the shower and brushes his teeth before collapsing on the bed totally naked. His wet hair sticks to his forehead and neck and he actually feels a little sweaty, the hot, still air of the bedroom making his skin prickle.

"Get some undies on, at least," Sam says when he comes out of the bathroom. He pokes one of the dimples at the bottom of Steve's spine and then there's a small bit of cool fabric in the same place. Steve only groans and reaches back to grab the underwear, forces himself to stand so that he can pull them on and then actually climb into bed.

"You're probably gonna have a headache in the morning," Sam mutters. Steve watches as the other man towel-dries his hair. "Gonna get you some meds and water. Don't fall asleep yet." Biting his lip, Steve burrows further underneath the duvet, only his face from the nose up visible. The sheets are cool and soft against his skin, helping him calm down just a bit. His heart's still beating a little faster than normal at the thought that Bucky was in the same car as him not even an hour ago.

The fact that Bucky didn't bother to say even a hello or a goodbye isn't all that surprising to Steve, and he can't exactly be mad about it, considering he ended up puking his guts out upon seeing Bucky rather than greeting him. It's just - it was scary, is all, seeing Bucky after all these years. He looks grown-up now, with the jawline and a bit of stubble. The last time Steve had seen Bucky was when he was still losing baby fat on his cheeks and his hair stuck up from too much gel. He's twenty-one, now - old enough to drink, buy his own cigarettes, get tattoos.

And it's just very, very strange to think about, because the last time Bucky was in Steve's life was when he was still technically a child.

Sam comes back into the bedroom with a glass of water and two pills of ibuprofen in each hand. Steve sits up just enough so that he won't spill the water on himself or choke, and then returns to his position.

"You doing okay?" Sam wonders, his voice soft. He reaches forward and runs a hand through Steve's wet hair, which is definitely going to be a tangled mess in the morning, but Steve's far too tired to try and brush it now.

"Guess so," Steve mumbles. Sam nods and rounds the bed, gets in on his side and Steve immediately cuddles up against him.

"I'm really sorry, S," Sam whispers. Steve doesn't say anything, only stares blankly at a small scar on Sam's chest, trying to stop tears from welling up in his eyes. He never planned for this to happen - for the people he was ready to call his friends to have a ringleader with the name Bucky Barnes. All he wanted when he came here was to get a job, learn the law, find a nice girl to settle down with. Steve  _ knows _ it's not the end of the world, not because Bucky is  _ here _ and probably goes to Steve's school and  _ has all the same friends as him _ . But he can't but feel like the world  _ is _ out to get him, somehow, for some reason.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Steve has to wake up no later than six-thirty for his shift at the bakery, and he feels like absolute shit. Despite the Ibuprofen Sam gave him the night before, his head is still pounding and his eyes hurt. Pepper, his shift leader, notices how he's working much slower than usual, and wonders if he needs to go home and take a day to himself. 

"No," Steve sighs, smoothing out some strawberry champagne flavored icing on a cake he's decorating. "I need the hours." His hand is shaky when he tries to draw the white roses on top of the icing, so Pepper takes the reins and makes him go on break, for which he profusely apologizes for. Pepper only gives him some leftover pumpkin bread and makes him some green tea.

"Go sit somewhere, take a break. Don't make yourself feel worse," she says, before pulling on the apron tied around his waist and gently nudging him out of back line. Steve cradles the pumpkin bread wrapped in plastic wrap to his chest, other hand clutching at a fresh steaming hot cardboard cup of green tea. He's grateful for it, though, since he hadn't eaten breakfast when he should have. The thought of food made him feel sick hours ago but now, as his fingers press into the soft bread, Steve suddenly feels how hungry he really is.

He sits at a table by the window and unwraps the bread, listening to the soft patter of raindrops against the window. The bread isn't fresh, probably from a day or so ago that didn't get sold because it's still September and people aren't into the whole pumpkin spice thing yet. But it's good, nonetheless, and Steve uses his fingers to pick off chunks from the bread and eat them slowly. The tea is too hot to drink yet, so he takes off the lid so that it will cool faster.

The thing about Sunday mornings is that everyone is either sleeping in or at church, so the bakery usually isn't busy until lunch time or until the sun starts to go down. They've only had one customer so far, a balding middle-aged man that appears to be a regular and buys a black coffee and a glazed donut every morning. He always puts $2 in the tip jar, one of the few people Steve has witnessed actually doing it.

Steve’s still staring out the window blankly when his phone vibrates in his pocket, so he tears his eyes away from the raindrops on the glass and moves his hips up just the slightest bit so he can take his phone out of the pocket of his jeans.

He doesn't recognize the number, but he swipes anyway to unlock the phone, chewing on his bottom lip with furrowed brows. His phone is old and slow, so it takes a moment for the message to actually show up, but when it does, Steve is very confused.

_ Sorry bout last nite .. _

That's all it says. Steve looks at the number again and he definitely doesn't recognize it, but it's from this area code. He vaguely wonders who the hell would voluntarily be up at seven in the morning on a Sunday before typing out a reply.

_ Sorry, who's this? _

Placing his phone on the table, he takes a sip of his tea, which is now at an acceptable temperature. It still burns his tongue and throat a little, makes tears come to his eyes, but that's when it's best to drink.

Twenty minutes later, there's still no reply from the mystery number, so Steve decides to gather his trash and pocket his phone. A few customers have come in since he sat down, so he figures he should probably get back to work and help Pepper. There's still a lot to bake in back line and now that he's gotten some food, his headache is dying down and his hands aren't as shaky; he should be able to decorate more cakes without a problem.

Cake orders are his least favorite thing to do. Baking the cakes aren't the worst, because Pepper lets him lick the utensils after, but decorating them is different. Steve’s good at it, though, since he worked in a bakery back home while in high school and his mom liked baking a lot too.

Steve passes by a tall trash can and tosses the empty cardboard cup and the plastic wrapping inside, wiping his hands on his jeans before going to the back. Pepper is there, carrying out the cake he was working on before to the display by the register.

“You feeling better?” she asks, balancing the cake on one hand.

He nods once and grabs his apron from the rack, ties it around his waist.

“A little bit. Didn't sleep well last night, is the thing,” he replies, “I'll be okay, though.”

“Just let me know if you wanna go home,” Pepper murmurs, and then goes out front to put the cake on display. Steve bites his bottom lip and places his phone next to his things on the small table by the computer, turning it on  _ Do not disturb _ so that he won't be distracted while baking. He has to make cupcakes yet, with the same strawberry champagne icing and angel food cake, because Pepper is trying to introduce new flavors to up business. Steve himself had come up with the icing flavor and it took Sharon to convince Pepper that it was a good idea - and so far, she hasn't regretted the decision.

And so the day passes by slowly, business picking up a bit during the expected times and then the number of people lowering during others. Sam drops by to visit Steve and bring him a sandwich and some chips, uses his thumb to wipe some icing off of Steve’s cheekbone.

“Didn't have a chance to see you off before you left this morning. You feeling better?” Sam wonders.

“Yeah. Pepper gave me some food and I took more ibuprofen. And baking always helps me feel better.” Steve wipes down the counter behind the register while talking, catching crumbs and splashes of hot beverages.

“That's good. Do you still want to talk when you get home? I'll order takeout,” Sam offers. Steve looks up at Sam and finds that he looks concerned, even a little bit nervous, brows furrowed and sharp pretty teeth chewing at his full bottom lip.

“Maybe. There isn't a lot to say, is there? He showed up, I vomited my guts out in a public restroom, then went home,” Steve says, voice clipped and his throat feels tight, so his eyes shift to look over Sam’s shoulder.

“I didn't know he’d be there, Steve, I swear. I thought - I thought he was gone for good.”

“I know. I'm not blaming this on you, Sam,” Steve sighs. He balls up the dirty rag in his large hands and then tosses it into a bucket under the counter. “We’ll talk later, maybe. I dunno. You should go over to Natasha’s, or something. I'm probably just gonna go home and take a nap to avoid schoolwork.”

Sam sighs and nods, shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Okay. Well, I'll text you what I'm doing. See you later, S.”

He's frustrated. Steve can feel it coming off Sam in waves as he leaves the bakery with his head low. And Steve  _ knows _ he's being more stubborn than necessary, but he's right. There's nothing to talk about and even if there was, he wouldn't talk about it. Just because Bucky and him have mutual friends doesn't mean they have to talk.

The thing is, Steve is afraid. He hasn't seen Bucky in half a decade, and the prospect that he is  _ here _ in the same city, probably going to the same school, and having drinks with the same people Steve is mutuals with is a terrifying one. Bucky would be - what, 21? Steve can't do the math at the moment - by now, probably off somewhere else on his own, maybe travelling Europe like he always talked about doing when they were kids. The whole thing just makes Steve want to pack everything up and go back to his mom in that town that fell apart generations ago.

Wiping his damp hands on his dirty white apron, Steve goes back to help out Pepper with whatever she needs. The rest of his shift passes by relatively quickly, Sharon coming in at four to pick up after Steve. They make small conversation as she's clocking in, Steve wondering how her girlfriend is doing (“She’s doing great, I think I'm gonna propose soon if she doesn't first.”). As he leaves the bakery, keys in hand, he feels like in some other time and place he and Sharon could have dated.

For a moment he sits in his car, key in the ignition but not yet turned. Steve stares at the car in the spot in front of him next to the sidewalk littered with people coming and going by, blankly studies the license plate without actually seeing it. Like earlier, he shifts his hips upward and pulls his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it.

He really should go home and do his homework, considering tomorrow is the day Professor Fury is choosing his interns, but he selects Tony’s name anyway. Steve puts the phone on speaker and places it behind the steering wheel before turning on his car, phone still waiting to be picked up. He's sure it's about to go to voicemail when Tony’s voice finally comes through.

“Steven!” Tony exclaims cheerfully, Steve wincing a bit at the nickname. “What can I do for you on this fine September evening?”

“Hey, Tony. I just got off work. Entertain a somewhat depressed law student?” Steve chuckles as his own statement despite the coldness behind it.

“Class started, like, a week ago,” Tony scoffs, “you have yet to truly experience your debt and downfall.”

“Shut up. So, are you gonna invite me over or what?” Steve’s driving carefully through downtown now, leaning forward in his seat a bit so that Tony can hear him better. Tony heaves a dramatic sigh.

“I suppose so. I'll leave the door unlocked for you.” Steve’s phone slides behind the steering wheel as he rounds a sharp corner and it makes a loud noise against the dash. “All good?”

“Yeah. Just driving,” Steve murmurs, “cool, though. Thanks. I’m going to run upstairs to my place to grab some school stuff, if you don't mind.”

“Nah, I don't care. Now get off the phone so I'm not responsible for your impending death.”

Steve doesn't get a chance to say goodbye, because Tony beats him to it by simply hanging up. Thankfully, with driving, the bakery and Steve’s apartment aren't too far away from each other, and just a few moments after his conversation with Tony he pulls into a spot.

He's quick to run up to his own apartment and grab his bag, the place empty. Before he goes inside Tony’s, he pulls out his phone and texts Sam.

**Steve: You with Natasha? x**

_ Sam: Yea might stay at her place tnight since Bucky is out… that fine ? xx _

**Steve: That's fine I'm at Tony’s. Wrap it before you tap it!!! ;-) xxxxx**

_ Sam: Ur disgusting . luv ya :p _

Steve pockets his phone and then opens Tony’s door, knocking on the door frame before officially stepping in.

“It's me,” he calls out into the apartment. He's already been here quite a few times, so he comfortably toes off his boots and then heads over to the living room. It's weird, because Tony and Clint have the same floor plan as Steve and Sam, but the living room is totally backwards. Tony and Clint have a couch and a love seat, for one thing, something Steve has yet to invest in. But the television is on the opposite wall, and the pictures are all wrong and the coffee table is pushed up against the window.

“In here!” Tony calls from the kitchen, so Steve puts his bag down on the faux-leather couch and then walks into the small kitchen. The walls are a soft blue color and there's no pots hanging over the stove, and the counters are much more covered in dirty dishes than Steve’s. Tony and Clint have somehow managed to artfully stack handled coffee mugs up to the higher cabinets.

“Who the hell owns that many coffee mugs?” Steve scoffs.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Tony grins, and reaches out a long arm from the fridge to ruffle Steve’s hair. Steve pushes his hand away.

“Are you cooking for me?” Steve wonders, moving closer to Tony to stand on his toes and look over his shoulder into the fridge. It's surprisingly stocked with food and he vaguely wonders if Jarvis, Tony’s coworker, had to do it since he and Clint are too lazy.

“Of course. How else will I woo you?” Tony replies. Steve barks out a laugh and backs away as Tony grabs the necessary items from the fridge.

“A man after my own heart,” Steve breathes, putting a hand over his chest dramatically. “Where’s Clint?”

“Not sure. Probably out drinking or smoking weed or both. My dear little stoner,” Tony coos fondly. A wide smile plays at his lips and Steve sits down at the circular kitchen table while Tony starts pulling out some pots. “Do you like tomatoes?”

“Love them. I could literally bite into a tomato like an apple with no problem,” Steve says honestly, and Tony has to turn around to make sure he's actually being serious. Steve merely blinks at the older man, who only shakes his head and goes back to preparing… whatever.

“That's not what I mean… but… cool,” Tony mutters. Steve chuckles and takes his phone out of his pocket to check and see if he has any texts, which - he does.

_ Doesn't matter .. im just sorry, yea ? not sure what for but yea. hope ur feeling better ?? _

It's from the mystery number, replying nearly twelve hours after Steve’s text wondering who the person was. His thumbs hover over his phone for a few moments while Tony cooks, wondering what he should say.

_ It’s fine, I'm feeling better. Not sure what was wrong. Why won't you tell me who you are? _

Steve decides that's a safe way to go and puts his phone in the chest pocket of his flannel, pushing his hair off his forehead.

He and Tony talk about random things while they prepare dinner together, Tony asking Steve about work and school and he sounds a bit like a parent. Sometimes Steve has a feeling Tony is flirting with him, like Natasha back at the party, and goes along with it a little bit. They tease back and forth and playfully feed each other the pasta Tony made, sauce from a jar, and said sauce ends up on Tony’s cheek more than in his mouth. The same goes for Steve and while they're cleaning up, Tony reaches over and wipes the sauce off with his thumb.

And it's weird for Steve, because he knows he straight - yet here he is, playing along with Tony and letting him play with his hair and put his arm around his shoulders when they watch  _ Pretty Little Liars.  _ He's only ever been concerned and tried reevaluating his sexuality once, when he was a teenager, but that's all totally irrelevant now and something Steve would rather not think about anymore if he can help it. Which, unfortunately, it seems like it's hard to do that now, since he's got an older man’s arm around his shoulders and a phone burning a hole in his pocket and his head is still a little floaty from last night.

When Tony transitions the show from  _ Pretty Little Liars _ to  _ Grey's Anatomy,  _ Steve decides to actually start researching the last bit he needs for Professor Fury’s class tomorrow. He's not really holding his breath on getting the internship at the firm, but he certainly would like and at least try to pass the class. While Steve starts on his research, Tony turns down the volume on the TV a bit so that the show becomes more background noise than a distraction. It's quite nice of him to do, really, and the later it gets the more Steve appreciates Tony’s company, very different from when he's upstairs and home alone.

“Holy  _ fuck,” _ Steve gasps when he finally,  _ finally, _ shuts his laptop and tossed his pen down next to it. His notepad and binder are an absolute mess and he’ll have to organize both before his noon class tomorrow, but he's done.

“‘Bout time. It's nearly three,” Tony murmurs, yawning as he flips between  _ Keeping Up With The Kardashians _ and  _ Teen Wolf _ re-runs.

“Are you serious?” Steve’s mouth drops open and he presses the home button on his phone to find Tony is correct - it's nearly three in the morning. “Why didn't you send me home?”

Tony shrugs. “You keep good company. What were you doing, anyway? Whatever took you four coffees to get through must’ve been an absolute monster.”

“Oh. It's a case for Professor Fury that I've been putting off for  _ weeks _ now. He's choosing interns in class tomorrow - today,” Steve says. He rests back against the couch and rubs his eyes, heaving out a deep yawn that comes from the bottom of his lungs. “Thanks for letting me camp out here. I'm fucking exhausted.”

“Like I said, you keep good company. Wanna stay over instead of going upstairs and all?”

Steve’s silent for a moment, listens to the way Tony shifts on the other end of the couch. He thinks about how Tony’s hand felt on his thigh at the bar, and how quick he is to put his arm around Steve’s shoulders, and the way he looks at Steve’s lips when he talks.

“Nah, I'll just head upstairs. Feeling a little homesick. Thanks, though,” Steve says, and stands. He ignores how Tony’s shoulders noticeably slump from where he's sitting on the couch, knobby knees pulled to his chest.

“Alright, then. It was nice having you over. You should hang out more,” Tony says. He stays where he is, watches Steve gather up his things and triple-checking he didn't leave anything behind.

“Yeah, definitely,” Steve murmurs noncommittedly, patting his pockets. When he finally has everything together, he's quick to get to the front door pick up his shoes. There's really no point in wearing them on the way up to his apartment, since he’ll take them off anyway, and when he stands he can hear Tony come up behind him.

“So, see you around, kid,” Tony mumbles. He brings up a hand and runs it through his hair, quiff fallen hours ago and hanging down in front of his eyes. Steve smiles up at him, and he’s about to turn the doorknob and walk out of the apartment when --

Tony leans in and kisses Steve on the cheek.

It’s long and lingering, and soft and tender, and Steve’s cheeks immediately heat up, eyes widening. His hand slips on the doorknob and he giggles nervously, avoiding Tony’s gaze as he leaves the apartment. Steve’s heart is pounding wildly and resonates deeply in his chest, up to his throat, as he quickly moves up the wooden steps to his floor, careful to not slip on the stairs with his socked feet.

And when he gets into his apartment, he just throws his belongings underneath the hall table and stomps into his bedroom, lungs on fire with holding in tiny screams and long breaths. Because Tony just  _ kissed  _ him - on the cheek, granted, but now things feel kind of weird for Steve because him being a naturally cuddly person should've never translated to wanting something physical with a new friend. Especially since Steve is straight, a bit different Tony, which he had already figured out as soon as he moved in.

Steve throws himself down face-first onto the bed he shares with Sam, which is empty because Sam is probably still with Natasha and probably won't be back until after the sun has come up. It's hot in the bedroom, face shoved into the duvet and arms and legs sticking out in a starfish formation, socked feet hanging off the edge of the bed. When Steve burrows his face into the duvet more, he can feel the weight of exhaustion starting to crash down on him, and he should probably get undressed and plug in his phone and everything else but he's just  _ so exhausted _ . Especially considering the fact that he's been awake for a nearly solid twenty-four hours and didn't even get a good night’s sleep on Saturday after throwing up in a public restroom.

But the thoughts drift away with the rest of Steve’s consciousness, and he falls asleep on the bed with heated cheeks and a dry mouth, hyper-aware of the only thing separating he and Tony Stark is a floor and a ceiling.

\---

Steve’s mom calls him the weekend after his first shitty weekend. It's nice to hear her voice and talk to her about how things are going back in his hometown, and tell her how things are going in Brooklyn.

“Got yourself a girl yet?” Sarah wonders. Steve can hear the smile in her voice and he can't help but smile as well, phone on the counter as he prepares dinner for he and Sam.

“No,” Steve sighs after a moment, “I don't know all that many, to be completely honest.”

“You need to get out more, sweetheart. Sam told me the other night that you've been kind of reclusive…” Steve groans and goes to smack his forehead in exasperation, but instead he hits himself with the wooden spoon covered in sauce.

_ “No,  _ mom, I'm not being a recluse,” Steve murmurs, wipes the sauce off his forehead with a dish towel. “I'm a law student. I have a lot of school stuff to do. And when I'm not doing school I'm working. I hardly have any time for sleep.” The line is silent.

“Okay, baby. I'm just making sure. You know how I worry,” Sarah says softly. Steve sighs.

“I know. And you have every right to worry. But if I wasn't doing okay I’d tell you, you know that.”

Which isn't exactly true. Steve hardly ever tells his mom when he isn't okay because then she won't be okay. And without living with her anymore, it's hard to fix things when she can't see her son on the daily.

Neither of them really say anything for a few moments, Steve finishing up dinner and Sarah doing things on her end. Probably knitting. The pasta is finally done cooking as Sam walks in the door and so Steve says his goodbyes to his mom, takes the pot off the burner and drains it in the sink while Sam tosses his bag and leather jacket down on the kitchen floor.

“Hey! Pick that up,” Steve protests, pushing his bottom lip out in a pout.

“I need to talk to you,” Sam says. Steve’s brows furrow and he sets the colander filled with pasta back into the sink.

“Yeah? Everything alright?” Sam runs a hand through his hair and then rubs his hands together. He's hardly ever nervous or anxious - and it automatically makes Steve feel the same way, so in tune with his best friend. It would be like that, even if Sam hadn't said the dreaded  _ I need to talk to you. _

“I - I invited Natasha over for dinner tomorrow night. Since you haven't seen her since the bar and she - well, she asked if she could bring along Bucky and I said yes without thinking.”

It's a good thing Steve had put the pasta down, otherwise it would have spilled all over the floor at Sam’s words. Steve’s body immediately goes rigid, numb, even. In front of him stands Sam, wringing his hands and looking near to tears because he knows he's upset Steve, knows he's made a bad move.

“I'm sorry - Steve, you know I didn't mean to, I'm - just, let me fix this, please,” Sam begs, voice pitching at the end of his sentence to a slight whine. Steve only stares at him from across the small kitchen, backs up to rest his hand and body against the marble counter because he feels like he's going to fall over. His eyes move from Sam’s face, stares down at his mismatched socks against the linoleum floor.

“I can say they can't come over. I'll say you're sick and it's contagious or something for school came up,” Sam says quickly. Steve can see him clasp his hands together in front of his chest with desperation.

The apartment is silent. Sam stands utterly still with whitening knuckles and Steve counts the stripes on his socks, fingers hurting from how hard he's gripping the smooth counter. He can't seem to think real thoughts, just fragments of panic and a way to get out of this. Things he could say to Sam, things he could say to Bucky and Natasha. Bucky may not even come, he might turn down Natasha and Sam’s offer, he could be so late that Steve will be in bed by the time Bucky shows up and he won’t actually have to face him.

“No,” Steve says slowly, swallowing dryly, adam’s apple bobbing. “It's fine. They both can come.”

“Steve-”

“I'm not - just because I can't handle this doesn't mean I should stop you from creating and rekindling friendships, Sam,” Steve whispers. Sam’s face goes through a range of emotions, from relief and joy to disappointment and sadness. He moves over to Steve in 3 long strides and pulls the taller young man to his chest, bringing a hand up to card through Steve’s hair.

“Are you sure, babe?” Sam whispers. They rest their foreheads together and Steve’s eyes flutter shut, his warm breath fanning in small puffs against Sam’s lips.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and chews it a bit. The hand not in his hair is on the side of his face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Steve nudges his face closer to Sam’s, noses brushing, and Sam’s eyes shut too. His arms are tight around Sam’s lean frame, a hand on his back clutching at his t-shirt and the other holding onto the back of his neck.

It's intimate. Standing like this with Sam - he's hardly ever this close to someone, and it's been nearly two years since he felt the breath of someone else against his lips. It makes his stomach quiver and his eyelids flutter, the feeling of anticipation and coldness swirling around in his chest as he and Sam’s faces get closer and then tilt back. Hesitant, very hesitant, and Steve’s breath is so caught in his throat he feels as if he may choke on it.

Sam closes the space between them first and then that's when Steve releases the air in his throat, Sam breathing it in in an open-mouthed kiss. Steve’s fingers tingle as he grips harder at the back of Sam’s shirt and their lips move together, Steve tilting his head slightly to get a better angle. Sam’s lips are warm and plush, incredibly soft against his own and his cheeks heat up at the thought of how they'd feel against other parts of his body. They press their bodies together, Sam’s thigh slipping in between Steve’s legs and pressing against his groin.

Steve gasps, just now realizing he's got a semi because of his best friend, but Steve opening his mouth let's Sam’s tongue in. Sam's tongue is hot and slick, running along the roof of Steve’s mouth and his teeth.

“This okay?” Sam mumbles against Steve’s lips, the marble counter digging into the bottom of Steve’s back as Sam pushes him further.

“Yeah,” Steve says, breathing hard as Sam’s lips trail along his jawline, moving his hips in slow thrusts so that their cocks brush against each other through their jeans. “F-fuck -  _ Sam.” _

“Fuck, Steve,” Sam pants, tongue hot against Steve’s pulse point underneath his jaw, teeth gently scraping at the thin skin. “Wanna suck you off.”

_ “Oh, God,”  _ Steve groans, knees going weak at the thought of seeing his best friend between his legs.

“But - but I'm not gonna.” Steve’s eyebrows furrow but before he can actually ask any questions, Sam is pressing their mouths together again, his slender hand palming at Steve’s bulge in his tight jeans. The pants are starting to become painful and his cock strains against the material. The only relief he's had for years now is his own hand, and at this point he doesn't really care that Sam is a boy and his best friend - he needs to get off or else he’ll cry.

Suddenly, Sam’s hand is gone and both are softly on Steve’s waist, lips going slack as the kiss becomes slow and tender. Steve sighs through his nose and the kisses turn to small pecks, ones they've given to each other since they were children. The air is cool now, less heated, and Steve can already feel his dick softening up in his jeans as Sam kisses the bridge of his nose gently.

They're silent after that, moving around each other and reheating the food that had gone cold so that dinner isn't unbearable. The silence feels soft, not uncomfortable at all, which Steve is happy about because he was really hoping making out with his best friend wouldn't make things awkward. It was platonic, anyway, and it helped him calm down in a strange way that made him a lot less worried about Bucky showing up to his house for dinner.

“Do you want me to cook?” Steve wonders as they're cleaning up. He's got himself elbow-deep in hot, soapy water, washing the used pots and plates while Sam dries them with a towel.

“I was thinking, actually… you could teach me how to make something?” Sam asks, smiling up at Steve sheepishly. Steve smiles back.

“Yeah, ‘course. I have tomorrow off so I can show you how to make something. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, you're ace at Italian shit. And everyone likes Italian. You can't go wrong with that,” Sam murmurs, balls up the towel and tosses it into the clothes washer and dryer nook. Steve just nods, his mouth stretching open in a wide and silent yawn, eyes fluttering shut. Whatever had happened earlier exhausted him, drained Steve of his minimal energy and left him completely spent. Sam’s lips had calmed him, turned his bones to pudding. Steve slumps against the counter, arms sinking lower into the sink and soap climbing above his elbows. The sink is empty of dishes, gross shreds of tomatoes floating around in the lukewarm water that were rinsed off the plates Sam and Steve had eaten from.

Steve looks up from the sink and at Sam, who has a soft look on his face.

“You’re exhausted. Let’s get you to bed,” Sam suggests.

“Yeah. Okay,” Steve agrees. He pulls the drain plug out of the sink and dries off his hands and forearms with the towel Sam was using for the dishes before he follows Sam to bed. It’s there that he finally collapses, burying his face in his pillow that sort of smells like Sam for some reason, not that Steve actually minds. Sam helps Steve undress without having to leave the bed; he’s already completely asleep when his left sock is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this took so long to post only for it to be a short and most likely unsatisfying chapter, but ive been insanely busy the past week and couldnt find the time to write/post. at least yall get more of an idea of what bucky looks like lol
> 
> note: i know the way i describe bucky is more like when seb was younger and less built-up, but with current bucky's long hair. it's just the way i wanted it to be. 
> 
> as always, comments are appreciated and so is coming to talk to me on my blog!

 

_July 2, 2001_

“Out here you can see the stars but the sunset is prettier in the city.”

“Why?”

“Mom says it's because of the pollution,” Bucky replies, “she told me and Becca that all the chemicals is what makes the sky look pink.”

“I've never seen a pink sky before,” Steve says, amazed. They're sitting on Steve’s roof, watching as the sun sinks down behind the line of trees. “I'd like to draw it.”

“You'd do a good job,” Bucky nods. He sticks a dirty hand into their paper bag of sticky and too-warm food, pulling out a messy PB&J sandwich that Steve made himself. Steve smiles softly to himself as he sips at his juice box. Bucky never fails to compliment Steve’s art, even though it's the product of an 8-year-old. (It's when Steve thinks this way that he remembers his mom said he's got to start somewhere.)

“You gonna stay tonight?” Steve asks after a while. It's almost completely dark now and all he can see is the slightest glow of the sun against the sky.

“Can't, actually,” Bucky murmurs, “we gotta go to the city early tomorrow. Mom’s seeing a doctor.”

“Is she okay?”

“She's gonna have another baby soon,” Bucky explains. Steve’s face lights up, all of his attention taken away from the weak sunset to face his friend.

“A baby!” Steve exclaims, “how old is it?”

“Old enough to see if it's a boy or girl, I think. At least, that's what mom told me. That's why we’re going tomorrow.”

Steve doesn't really care if it's a safety hazard or not; he practically tackles Bucky in a hug, Bucky losing his awkward position on the roof that was keeping him from sliding off. Both of them laugh as they roll over, Bucky lying on top of Steve; he rests his head against Steve’s scrawny shoulder and sighs.

“I hope it's a boy,” he whispers.

“You've already got one,” Steve growls out, then pokes his fingers into Bucky’s sides and wiggles them, breaking them into hysterical laughter all over again.

+++

Steve teaches Sam how to make _Fettuccine con Carciofi_.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Fettuccine with artichokes.”

And despite knowing him for as many years as he has, Steve seems to always forget just how awful Sam is at cooking. He can do breakfast food, and does make a mad good burger, but burns just about anything he puts in a pan. Which is what could have happened with the _fettuccine con carciofi_ , if it hadn't been for Steve standing over Sam and watching every move like a hawk.

“Wait, can you get drunk by putting wine in here? That ain't really the goal t’night, Steve,” Sam says, holding up the bottle of white wine Steve managed to get with his fake ID. (It really wasn't that hard to do. Steve is pretty sure the 20-something guy at the register wanted to get fired, anyway).

_“No,_ you idiot. You're cooking it, so all of the alcoholic content basically goes away. It's for flavoring,” Steve scoffs, “please be careful and don't waste anything, this shit wasn't cheap.”

“Fine, fine,” Sam snapped as he brought a knife down on a clove of garlic. “Are you feeling okay?”

Steve sighs and sits down at the kitchen table. For most of the day he's been able to block out the fact that Bucky is coming over later with Natasha; he's been able to clean up the apartment and go grocery shopping and just pretend it's all part of his daily life and not because someone is coming over for dinner.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Steve murmurs.

“You gonna eat with us?”

“Don't know.”

And he really doesn't. Because he really wants to, but he also doesn't want to have to face Bucky, not after all these years. _Especially_ since Steve seeing Bucky warranted a giant vomit session that left him feeling like he was going to actually die on a disgusting public restroom floor.

“I just wasn't sure. You kind of bought a lot of food,” Sam said cautiously.

“It's not really for me. Bucky eats-” Steve cuts himself off and clenches his hand into a fist on his thigh, taking a deep breath. “From what I remember, Bucky ate a lot. When we were kids.”

“Yeah,” is all Sam says. He knows how it's been for Steve; suddenly everything reminds him of Bucky again and it's a real pain in the ass. When they went to get new curtains, they almost bought blue ones until Steve remembered blue is the color of Bucky’s eyes. When Sam stopped by Burger King before coming home and brought Steve his classic favorite, Steve could hardly eat it like he usually did because the first time he _had_ Burger King was with Bucky. And he especially couldn't watch _Titanic_ with Sam when it was on TV this morning, because even though Bucky never would admit to it years ago, Steve knew it was his favorite movie.

He wonders if it still is.

“I'm gonna go for a run, so don't wait for me if they show up before I do,” Steve says after a moment. He gets up from the kitchen table and goes to their bedroom without waiting for a response from Sam, puts on his running clothes. This is probably the opposite of what he should be doing; it isn't exactly polite to show up at your friend’s dinner party drenched in sweat and smelling awful, but Steve could honestly care less at the moment. He puts his headphones in before he even leaves the building and then he's running, not even sure of which route he's taking. Steve knows he probably should've driven somewhere else, to a park with a trail and to an area where he isn't likely to get beat up in an alley (not that it's ever happened before, but. Steve is a cautious guy).

Usually when Steve goes for a run, that’s all he does; he turns off his brain and listens to his classic rock music and focuses on his breathing. But, in the way it has been in the past week, the switch won’t work. No matter what, Steve’s mind has been going at too many miles per hour for him to be feeling okay; last night was the first night he had gotten more than 5 hours of sleep, and that was because Sam finally made him take some melatonin because if Steve can’t sleep, neither can Sam.

Most of the thoughts are abstract - wondering where his mom put his drawings of Bucky, wondering if Bucky has any tattoos, if he has a girlfriend now. Steve knows they’re innocent thoughts, things he could ask Bucky himself, if it weren’t for the fact that he _can’t._ The desire to reconcile eats away at Steve as much as his anger does, boiling under his skin, so he begs for a distraction. Looks up new recipes on Pinterest for both the bakery and home (which he usually has to stop doing, wondering if Bucky would like it). Watches an indie movie on Netflix (he turns those off, because he wonders if Bucky has seen it). Tries to work on Professor Fury’s assignments (and then wonders if Bucky watched a report about it on the news).

In short, Steve has been absolutely miserable. And even running hasn’t been able to help, not like it used to in middle and high school; Steve is starting to wonder if running just makes it worse - trying to run away, a sport that’s become second-nature so his mind can multitask and allow him to think about other things.

Steve stops a few blocks away from his apartment and turns into an alley, breathing laboured and drenched in sweat. The Brooklyn air is uncomfortably hot and humid, even though the sun is starting to set behind the buildings; with it nearing dinner time, there’s less kids playing out on the cracked sidewalks and as he looks down the street from his spot in the alley, Steve can see most of the windows in the buildings open. There isn’t really a breeze to compensate for trying to keep electric bills low from turning the AC on, but people here take what they can get.

He should have brought a bottle of water. Steve lets his lungs calm down for a few more minutes as he thinks on if he should keep running or go back home and shower; he goes with the second option because Steve knows that’s what Sam wants. Sam and Bucky were always friends when they grew up, like Steve and Bucky - but also not like them. There really wasn’t a friendship like Steve and Bucky’s, and everyone knew that.

Steve knows he should be there because he also knows Sam is nervous, maybe even scared. He keeps forgetting he hadn’t been the only one who hadn’t seen Bucky in half a decade; Sam missed him too, cried when Bucky disappeared. Maybe not as much as Steve did - oh, god, not nearly as much as Steve - but that’s how it happened.

So he walks back to his apartment instead of runs, because the sidewalk has a slight incline he doesn’t feel like dealing with today and also because he’s suddenly very, very exhausted. Hopefully Sam didn’t use up all of the wine for dinner; Steve could use a glass (or six).

The walk takes a little longer than he anticipated but Steve doesn't mind. He feels like he's probably lost 10 pounds in just the past 45 minutes from all the sweat his body has pushed out through his pores.

Bucky and Natasha aren't there yet when he goes up; Sam is still cooking dinner, even though it really wasn't supposed to take that long to prepare. Steve figures he was procrastinating since he didn't want the food to be too cold when Bucky and Natasha showed up.

Steve goes straight to the shower and at first turns the handle to ice cold water, trying to wake himself up and somehow cool down his overheated body. It works, thankfully. He might not necessarily want to participate in dinner but he at least wants to look alive for it, considering he did throw up last time Bucky and Natasha saw him. Steve doesn't want them to think he's in a perpetual state of death and anxiety (which. Sometimes it feels like he is. But that's not important).

He takes his time showering, making sure he soaps up every part of his body to make sure he doesn't get any of that dreaded adult acne on his shoulders like he did as a teenager. And he might not want to admit it, but Steve is stalling this as much as Sam is, but for different reasons.

Blinking water out of his eyelashes, Steve turns off the water and gets out of the shower, only to hear voices. For the first time since moving in, Steve wishes the walls were thicker and the apartment bigger. It's mostly just Sam and Natasha, he notes. Actually, it's only them. He wonders if Bucky has even shown up yet or if he cancelled last minute.

The thought makes his heart rise a little more and his lips tug up at the corners; maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad.

Steve doesn't dress up in anything fancy, just a t-shirt and some jeans and only pushes his damp hair back off his face with his hand. If they were all going out, he’d probably bother to do a bit more for his appearance, but this is his house (and Steve thinks he's a little more than entitled to dress comfortable in it).

When Steve leaves his room, he still only heard Natasha and Sam talking. He stops in the middle of the hallway to listen; they're making conversation about Steve teaching Sam how to cook tonight’s dinner. His heart flutters with appreciation for his best friend and he keeps going forward, a smile on his face -

Which immediately falls. Bucky _is_ there, standing next to Natasha fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. His hair is thrown into a messy half-bun and he's wearing black skinny jeans and a leather jacket and combat boots, an outfit entirely impractical for the late summer weather outside. Steve can only see his profile, but it appears Bucky’s got a septum piercing that Steve hadn’t noticed before in his quick haze that was last weekend’s check-out.

Bucky looks _good_ , is the thing. He looks grown up and handsome and very, very different from his sixteen-year-old self that Steve really last saw. Steve stays in the hall and gets a better look at Bucky; his legs are long and shapely, assumedly from both athleticism and the tightness of his jeans. Even under the jacket he can Steve can tell Bucky is a bit on the thinner side, lanky and fit. The back of one hand Steve can see is covered in an elaborate black tattoo that seems to extend from underneath his jacket sleeve, and chipped red nail varnish adorns his short nails. The other hand holding the pack of cigarettes glints in the foyer light and Steve’s stomach turns; it's a prosthetic, silver and shiny and almost makes Steve choke on air.

He feels like too much has happened in five years.

Taking a deep breath, Steve walks forward and knocks on the corner of the wall, leaning his shoulder against it. The three in the foyer turn to look at him, Sam and Natasha smiling. Steve hardly looks at Bucky - he feels like he can't, the other man’s eyes so _cold_ \- and waves.

“Hey,” Steve says, grinning. “Glad you guys could make it.”

“Well, when Sam said he was cooking, that was an opportunity I couldn't miss,” Natasha returns, and walks forward to give Steve a hug he wasn't expecting. She's much, much shorter than he actually realized before, and Steve returns the hug awkwardly with one arm, chuckling nervously. Natasha is warm and soft  against him and she smells nice, and his breath catches in his throat as she pulls away, dark red lips still quirked up into a smirk.

“I'm surprised he didn't burn it,” Steve jokes, winking at Sam, who frowns back. “It smells good, man.”

“Thanks,” Sam beams, showing off his endearing-as-fuck gap between his front teeth.

Bucky doesn't say a single word the entire time. His cold, calculating eyes just bounce and forth between each body speaking, his prosthetic fingers still turning the menthol pack over and over. Steve wonders how long Bucky’s been smoking; he never did when they were younger, and was never the kind of person that would have older friends pick them up for him. But he's evidently changed a lot in five years. It makes Steve’s blood run a few degrees colder.

Dinner is nice; Bucky says probably two words so softly Steve can't even really understand him. Natasha profusely compliments Sam’s cooking (Steve profusely reminds her who taught him, which she laughs about).

But while nice, dinner is hard to get through. Steve and Bucky sit across from each other and it seems like Bucky looks only at his plate to avoid catching Steve’s gaze, eyes wide bottom lip caught between his teeth. They're straighter than before. Whiter than before.

And it's all over as quick as it started; Natasha has work in the morning so she has to go home, and where Natasha goes, so does Bucky.

“Call me Nat, you dork,” Nat scoffs when she hugs Steve goodbye, because apparently saying her full name is a bit much. Bucky doesn't say goodbye to Steve but he does shake Sam’s hand, awkwardly sticking his prosthetic one in his pocket with a slight redness to his cheeks.

“That was fun,” Sam says when they're gone.

Steve only nods and goes to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating!! i've been working a lot more and getting prepared for my last year of school but hope you like this; sorry it's so short, but the next one is gonna be long again.
> 
> don't forget to commentttttt it helps writers a lot

The next morning, Steve calls in sick for his evening shift at the bakery and opts for staying in bed rather than going to class. 

He feels a little bit pathetic; Steve hates it when his depression hits him this hard, and he  _ has _ been getting better with the new home life and taking better care of himself. But sometimes all those things just aren’t good enough and today is one of those sometimes.

The other side of the bed is empty when Steve wakes up, the fabric of the sheet and pillowcase cool. Sam must have left a while ago, because his body heat usually lingers long enough to comfort Steve on days like these. Staring up at the white ceiling, Steve tries to think; Sam has his Monday 8AM class and then work at the record store-slash-bookshop until it closes at 9PM.

Basically, Steve has the whole day alone, and the realization crashes down on him hard. He curls his body into a fetal position, turning his face into his pillow and takes a deep breath. There's not much more he can handle today than just staying under the covers and sleeping; showering seems too daunting and the thought of food makes Steve’s stomach turn uncomfortably.

Burrowing deeper under the covers, Steve let's sleep take him again, brain fuzzy and too tired to come up with any dreams.

+++

Steve is woken up by a fist pounding on the door to his apartment. His eyes fly open and his body jerks, letting out a groan when there's another obnoxiously loud knock.

“I'm coming!” he shouts, as loud as he can (which isn't very loud at all; he hasn't said a single word today) but the knocking does stop. He thanks his $9.00 salary for the small apartment and thin walls and then forces himself to get out of bed, because today is a Mental Health Day™ but Steve doesn't keep people waiting. Especially at his door. When they seem to have a very powerful knock.

Steve is too late to realize he's wearing only boxer briefs (which are probably Sam’s) before he opens the door – to come face-to-face with Nat.

“Uh – hey?” Steve says, eyebrows raising. She's wearing her work uniform still, because Nat is the only one out of the entire group that has a legitimate job. “I wasn't – why are you–?”

“Sam sent me over here to check and see if you're alive,” Nat explains, smiling gently. “Which, you… are.” Her eyes unashamedly trail down, lips quirking up into more of a smirk than a smile. Steve bites his lip and glances down awkwardly, turning away and opening the door wider.

“You wanna come in? I don't even know what time it is, honestly. I've been asleep all day,” Steve says as they walk through the apartment. She throws her brown jacket over the back of a ragged love seat Steve and Sam invested in.

“I can tell,” she muses.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “I'm, uh. I’m gonna go put some real clothes on. And maybe brush my teeth.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nat says kindly. They stare at each other from across the small living room for a moment before Steve heads back to his room without another word. He does exactly what he said he would; he puts on a pair of joggers and a t-shirt and brushes his teeth and  _ that  _ is what Steve calls progress.

“Please tell me this old thing isn't in this room just for decoration,” Nat scoffs when Steve returns. She's lounging lazily on the loveseat, shapely legs thrown over the armrest as she holds a hand out toward the pathetic television set pushed up against the window. Steve chuckles and settles into the couch (there’s more springs than stuffing in the thing at this point; he tries not to wince when he sits on one).

“No. Sam and I rely on Netflix and our trusty DVD player to get some entertainment,” Steve confirms, stretching his arms above his head. Nat smiles and nods once.

“He's a good friend, Sam,” Nat says softly, her eyes searching Steve’s face. His brows furrow but he gives her a soft smile.

“Yeah, he is,” Steve agrees, “so I guess Pepper must've told him I called in sick for tonight.”

“I think he just knew that today wasn't gonna be good for you,” Nat says, “last night was… nice. But.”

“Bucky,” Steve mutters, “damn it. Nat, I – things are. Complicated.” He watches Nat as she pushes her shoes off with her toes, letting them crash to the floor. Steve’s sure, more than anything, that Sam sent her here to check on him; but the impending conversation is probably upon Nat’s own accord.

“He won't talk to me about it. James, I mean,” Nat finally says after a moment. “Ever since the bar thing, your name’s basically been blacklisted at home. I avoid bringing you up as much as I can because he looks like a goddamn deer in headlights when I do.”

Steve groans to himself, closing his eyes. Of course he was an idiot to not even consider the effect this whole ordeal would have on Bucky.

“You called him James,” Steve says instead.

“He usually doesn't… like to be called Bucky by us,” Nat explains, “always said it's because it was a  _ stupid childhood nickname _ .” Steve swallows hard. “There's more to that, isn't there? There's a lot more to James that I don't know about. That he won't tell me.”

“Like what?”

“Like… where he came from before Brooklyn. Stuff about his family.” Nat takes a deep breath and Steve’s jaw clenches. “It's not like he's keeping secrets, I don't think. I think it has to do more with he wants to be someone… new.”

The thought makes Steve’s stomach feel cold and empty, and not because he hasn't eaten yet today. The fact that Bucky wants to erase his past – or at least hide it – means he wants to hide Steve, to hide Sam and all of those childhood memories and experiences. Steve groans and rubs his face with his hands, resting his chin in his palms. Nat is watching him, he can feel it, but Steve keeps his eyes a few inches to the left of her.

“I would tell you those things,” Steve starts with a sigh. “But I don't want to betray his trust before we even try to build it.” Nat smiles gently, but the quirk of her lips doesn't reach her green eyes, and Steve understands. Bucky is evidently a lot more reserved than the first time Steve met him all those years ago.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve wonders after a stretch of silence. Nat nods. “What happened to his arm?”

“That's one thing I do know about him from before we met,” Nat admits, voice quiet. “Got it blown off in combat. He was in the military for less than two years when it happened.”

Steve’s throat tightens and he allows his head to fall back against one of the throw pillows, curling his knees to his chest.

Bucky was in the  _ military.  _ Not for that long, granted, but it was something he occasionally talked about growing up with wide eyes and a breathless voice. For Steve to know he got there, only to leave without a piece of him and probably a lot of broken dreams – it's heartbreaking.

Steve stays silent for a long, long time, and Nat doesn't try and force him to speak. Besides, he's pretty sure that if he tried to talk, he'd actually end up crying instead. The only sound in the small apartment is the AC running, all other noise leaking in through the dingy windows; Steve strains his ears to try and hear the life from down on the street, but he's never been that good at hearing things.

Finally, with a dry swallow and a few blinks of his eyes, Steve speaks.

“Tell me about him.” His voice sounds as broken as he feels, thinking about Bucky and how he wants to be called James but didn't react weird when Sam called him Bucky out on the street and at dinner. Thinking about how he tried so hard to get into the army only to have his dreams ripped away not even two years later by losing an arm (his left arm; Steve’s stomach twists more when he remembers Bucky is left handed).

But everything isn't so dark.

Nat doesn't go deep, but Steve finds out Bucky is Jewish now. He doesn't comment how Bucky was raised Baptist, and he doesn't question why there was a conversion. Bucky goes to school for a triple major in history, English, and drama (he's always been an overachiever). He teaches kids how to play piano every Wednesday evening at an orphanage, but his main job is writing editorial columns for a free low-level newspaper. Bucky knows how to speak 4 different languages (German, Russian, French, and Romanian) and writes poetry when his depression gets really bad.

He paints the nails on his non-prosthetic hand a lot and most of the time the varnish is red and it's always messy. Nat knows that Bucky is having a bad night when he ties his hair up and away from his face (this makes Steve’s breath catch; Bucky had his hair up last night) and he's been thinking about cutting it off. Bucky’s close with his family but Nat’s never met any of them outside his sister, Becca. Apparently in addition to the second child from their childhood, Bucky’s mom had two twins when Bucky was eighteen, a boy and a girl.

Nat goes on and on about small details, like how Bucky doesn't like bright ceiling lights or lamps so he only keeps fairy lights in his room, or how he has six tattoos and three of them are on his thighs. That he has a ridiculously strong Brooklyn accent, but sometimes one with more of a country twang slips through and he doesn't like it. And how he's not very good at cooking, but he's always trying out new recipes when he's not doing well because it helps him concentrate on something other than what's going on in his head.

She breezes through darker things at times, like Bucky’s hurt himself before, or tried to at least. That he hasn't had a real relationship since before he left for Afghanistan because Nat and Bucky’s friends-with-benefits thing is enough for him, since Bucky can't handle getting too emotionally involved. How his relationship with his family is like none other, but sometimes he goes weeks or months without talking to anyone besides Nat and the kids at the orphanage and it upsets his mom.

At some point, Steve starts to doze off again. It's not that Nat’s details of Bucky are boring - Steve could listen to her for hours - but today is an exhausting day for his brain and Steve’s body is starting to shut down again.

“What time is it?” Steve wonders, when Nat takes a break from talking because she can see that Steve is having a hard time keeping up.

“It's almost five. I should probably get home,” Nat murmurs. Steve watches as she swings her legs off the arm rest and reaches to get her shoes, then diverts his eyes to the crack in the ceiling above the coffee table.

“Steve?” Nat gets his attention again. “If you ever wanna just hang out and talk, or anything really… just to get out of the house. Or have someone around – Sam has my number. Have him give it to you.”

Steve smiles at her softly and she smiles back, then takes the few steps between them to lean down and kiss his forehead.

“Get some sleep, yeah? But make sure you get out of bed tomorrow. Don't start falling,” she orders, pushing his blond hair off his forehead. Steve feels like a little kid again, when he'd be curled up on the couch, his pathetically small body wracked with another case of the flu because whatever is inside of him couldn't fight it off. Nat lingers for a few more moments and then leaves; she somehow knows that the spare key is under the tacky frog figurine out in the hall and locks the door behind her.

The couch is uncomfortable, but sleep is claiming Steve’s body more than anything else and he struggles to get back to his bed. His curtains are shut but through the sheerness of them he can see the sky is warmer; it's not really autumn yet, but it's getting close and that means it's getting darker quicker. Steve personally likes it that way - he loves the autumn months of the year, and the winter a little less.

Steve falls asleep again, dreaming about Bucky painting his nails and playing piano. His dreams are song-less.

+++

_ July 4th, 2001 _

“Happy birthday, Stevie!”

Bucky’s presents are a kiss on the lips and watercolor paints.

He tells Steve that the fireworks are for his birthday, and even though Steve knows they aren't, he likes to pretend Bucky is right.

Bucky eats too many hot dogs and gets sick, but Steve curls up in bed with him anyway.

Steve is nine years old now; his chest tightens a little more when Bucky’s grip on his hand does in his sleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating and for not making this chapter super long or progressive or good but. there's a bit of weird character growth that includes a brief het sex scene and then there's a different character pov for like 1 paragraph.
> 
> this is the turning point in the story though so after this chapter, everything starts to finally make sense :)
> 
> plssss leave comments and stuff like that it's always nice for authors to hear what y'all think about the work :)) i love you guys!!

For the first time in years, Steve digs out photo albums and other miscellaneous items from his childhood that Sarah had insisted he take to Brooklyn.

Sam is out with Natasha again, a few days after her visit because Sam knows Steve still needs a bit of space after the dinner. His heart hammers in his chest as he settles down on the couch, photos and booklets and random junk strewn all over the coffee table.

An overwhelming amount of the photos are of he and Bucky; glossy paper with poor quality, grainy and dark, or Polaroids from the camera Sarah had. Steve’s body aches as he studies the photos - studies Bucky’s face, the baby fat and lack of sharp facial features, the lack of dark circles around his eyes. Bucky was always a bit tanner growing up, getting out of his initial paleness during summer time from when he and Steve first met, as well as his hair lightening to a deep brown. Steve remembers how during the winter, his friend’s skin would go back to being as pale and sallow as Steve’s own; how Steve could see the purple of Bucky’s veins weaving a web through his eyelids.

And even seeing himself is a bit of a shock. Sometimes Steve forgets just how small he used to be, all sharp angles and jutting hip bones and asthma. Beaky nose and chapped lips and hearing problems. No wonder Bucky was so protective over Steve when they were kids - Steve was just so  _ small,  _ while Bucky was so much  _ bigger _ , his shoulders broadening and legs elongating while Steve’s body struggled to keep up.

Eventually, Steve did catch up. He grew a foot taller and got a little healthier after he joined sports teams in high school. But by that time, Bucky was gone. Maybe it was a good thing Steve grew, because there wasn't anyone to protect him anymore.

Picking up a photo, Steve’s eyes roam over it. It's he and Bucky curled up on Steve’s twin bed together, sleeping with their foreheads touching and fingers interlocked. His throat tightens as he sees the slight smile on Bucky’s lips, even in his sleep; and it's been years, but it's just so  _ familiar _ that it makes his heart ache. It's the smile where the corner of Bucky’s lips curl up, almost impish and mischievous looking. Steve turns the photo over and reads the scribbly cursive on the back.

_ Steve and Bucky, 12 and 13. Still our cuddly boys! _

It's his mom’s handwriting, but the context is in a way that makes it seem that Winifred, Bucky’s mom, was there to caption the photo too. Sometimes Steve forgets that not only did Steve lose his best friend all those years ago; Sarah lost hers as well, she and Winifred being as close as any two mothers could. Growing up, Steve’s always wondered if it started out for the sake of their sons; and then he remembers when he and Bucky were 15 and 16, and they were still squishing themselves into that twin bed, and Bucky’s dad said -

Well. That part doesn't matter. Steve chews his bottom lip before placing the photo back on the table gingerly, as if it would crumble to pieces. He goes through some other items, like his old stack of baseball cards that actually belonged to his dad. Crusty and ruined paint brushes, dried up watercolor palettes, and elementary and middle school graduation sheets were in the mix too.

On all of the old school tardy passes and award sheets,  _ Steven Rogers  _ is written in careful cursive by each teacher or administrator. Steve always hated how they wrote  _ Steven _ \- he went by Steve. That's what he told Bucky his name was (he admitted later on, yeah, it's Steven. But like Bucky didn't like James, Steve didn't like Steven) and that's what he wrote on his assignments and signed receipts with.

Some of Bucky’s things are in the mess, too. There's a few drawings he did for Steve, even though they weren't ever really that good. Some bottle caps they collected over time and dried up flowers from the fields that surrounded their homes. There’s even a copy of Winifred’s ultrasound from the third baby when Steve was only eight years old; the perfect side profile showed off a nose like Bucky’s and the baby turned out to be a boy, just like Bucky wished for.

Eventually, it gets too hard for Steve to breathe, so he packs everything back up carefully and slowly.

Instead of shoving the box into the back of the closet where it was before, Steve puts it in the empty bottom drawer of his dresser. He thinks that maybe, in some way, this is progress.

+++

The next time Steve sees Nat is four days later, at her apartment she shares with Bucky. She's laying in her bed, wrapped up in a giant white comforter wearing her pajamas, even though it's nearly dinner time.

“I didn't have work or class today. Thought I'd finally let myself rest,” Nat explains. The flat screen is on, too, sitting up on her dresser and playing some conspiracy theory show. Steve sits down at the end of her oversized bed and lets his eyes take in his surroundings.

For a college student, Nat has a lot of money; Sam explained to him the other night that her family is big and Russian and scary, which is all Steve had to know to be able to comprehend that her bank account is probably loaded. The apartment she shares with Bucky is nicer than most, the kitchen modern and one of the walls in the living room actually a giant window. Steve didn't get to see Bucky’s room - the door was shut and he could hear sounds coming from the other side, so he knew Bucky was in the house with them. It made Steve feel a bit strange, like his head had been stuffed full of cotton.

“C’mon up here, I'm watching  _ The X-Files _ ,” Nat says softly, patting the empty space in the bed next to her. Steve awkwardly kicks off his shoes before crawling his way up next to her, back stiff against the dark oak headboard.

“I've never seen this before. Or heard of it,” Steve says after a moment. His brows furrow as he watches the show, the red-headed girl throwing off scientific terms and the guy smiling.

“Where exactly are you from?” Nat wonders, turning down the volume of the show.

“You wouldn't know it,” Steve snorts, finally letting himself react next to Nat, crossing his ankles out in front of him on the bed. He glances down to see her still sunk into her pillows, controller resting against her chest and hair a wild mess of curls. The only times Steve has seen Nat is when she's made up and dressed nicely for work or going out; right now she's in an oversized Yale sweater and doesn't have a drop of makeup on. It's weird.

“Tell me about it?” Nat sounds genuinely curious, and Steve hesitates before she actually pauses the show and rolls over onto her side to get a better look at him. They smile softly at each other before Steve looks up at the white ceiling, trying to think about his childhood and teenage years. A lot of them are clogged up with memories of Bucky, but he tries to shake those out and erase them.

“It was just my ma and I,” Steve starts carefully. “I had a babysitter named Gemma because my ma had to work a lot, usually real late at night. There aren't a lot of businesses out there, not a lot of people - not a lot of anything. So she worked at the grocery store during the day and the pub at night.

“Being out in the middle of nowhere and all… our best bet was just watching old VHS tapes. Couldn't exactly afford a DVD player or anything, so the tapes made due and I never really complained because, well. There was nothing to complain about. My ma and I went to church, every Sunday. Sometimes Wednesday nights, if she wasn't working. And we learned all those values, the ones that everyone talks about nowadays. But my ma was different, I guess.

I don't know if she saw something or knew someone or if she was just made a certain way, but my ma never  _ ever _ let me agree with those things. She told me God is God, and he loves all. Sometimes it was hard, growing up, learning those values from the preacher and then hearing it from my ma because it made me wonder who had the most word in the situation. The preacher - his name was Mr. Pierce - he said he was someone God chose. And my ma was my ma.”

Steve looks down at Nat again. She's got quite possibly the softest smile on her face, eyes half shut and he realizes that she  _ listened.  _ He probably gave her more information than she asked for, and she didn't even  _ mind,  _ not one bit. Steve smiles back and let's out a soft chuckle, letting his body lower itself so he's actually next to her.

“Wanna get under the covers?” Nat asks instantly; it's a bit chilly in the apartment, the new autumn weather seeping in through the cracks in the window panes. Steve nods and burrows under the comforter and sheet next to her.

“Your mom sounds amazing,” Nat says after a moment. “What's her name?”

“Sarah. Sarah Maggie Rogers,” Steve says fondly, playing with a loose thread on the pillowcase. “My dad’s name was Joseph, but I never met him at a time I could remember him. He died while touring for the military overseas when I was only a few months old.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's - it's okay, I guess. I never really knew him. But ma always spoke very highly of him.”

“I never knew my mother,” Nat murmurs. Steve glances at her again, Nat’s green eyes in a faraway place. “She died giving birth to me in Russia. Papa took my sisters and I, came over here to America. He has black hair, but Mama had red. All us girls got the red hair. Papa’s green eyes. Mama’s fair skin.”

“Tell me about you.” It's not a question; Steve is genuinely curious. Nat’s lips quirk up in a slight smirk and she rolls onto her back, a delicate hand reaching out to wrap itself around Steve’s wrist, fingers dancing to the palm of his hand.

“Papa had an empire over there that he was able to bring here. I've always had a lot of money, growing up. Always had certain expectations to follow, had a man I was supposed to marry. I grew up a dancer - Papa put all my sisters and I into ballet, said it would teach us how to focus and be beautiful. I was supposed to go to Juilliard when I finished high school but… that's not what I wanted to do.”

“You go to Yale instead?”

“No. I go to NYU. This sweater isn't mine. I wanted a normal life, I wanted to marry someone of my choice, and I wanted dancing to be for fun. Papa didn't like it; being his last daughter, I was supposed to be his pride and joy. All my sisters and Mama put into one person - but I guess at some point the seams burst. He let me go to NYU and gave me this place to stay if I followed some rules. Stayed with the family business, the usual stuff.”

“You sound like you're part of the Russian mob,” Steve chuckles.

“In a way I am, I guess. We’re associated with them. But let's not get into that,” Nat laughs, and then suddenly her fingers are sliding in between Steve’s. He looks down at their hands, biting his tongue gently.

“What was  _ your _ mother’s name?” Steve asks softly, watching as she brings their hands to her lips.

“Vanya,” Nat whispers. Steve’s fingers twitch as her warm breath ghosts over his knuckles and he tears his eyes away from their hands to finally look at her again. Nat’s eyes are green and blazing, looking up at Steve from under long lashes. His heart jumps into his throat; maybe he's being a bit straight-forward in his head, but he  _ does  _ remember his experiences with Peggy, and he remembers how a lot of their times started. He remembers how they explored each other and it was so, so awkward, but possibly some of the greatest experiences of Steve’s life.

He knows how Nat is. Today is probably the deepest look he's gotten at her since their meeting, but he knows through Sam and Nat herself that she hooks up. She likes to have sex and so do her friends; Nat likes bodies and appreciates them, especially if they're Wanda’s or Bucky’s bodies and sometimes Clint’s.

Steve’s heart beats faster as she suddenly rolls over him, strong thighs carefully falling on either side of his narrow hips. His right hand is still interlocked with her left one, but he decides to let his other be a little less useless and immediately grip onto her small waist.

Feeling a bit out of his element, Steve is careful. Nat can probably sense this, too, because she hesitates for a few breathes.

“Is this okay with you?” she finally asks, taking her hand away from Steve’s and leaning down to press it onto his abdomen as she moves closer. He swallows and stares at a loose ringlet falling past Nat’s ear.

“Nat,” Steve croaks out. “I don't really - I haven't… I haven't done anything in a few years.” Nat smiles, as if she found his confession endearing, but then it turns just as soft as ever and she nods.

“We don't have to do anything. We can just keep watching TV,” she assures him. She shifts on top of Steve, only trying to make herself more comfortable; but Steve can't help but gasp as she moves over his half-hard cock that's beginning to press against the zip of his jeans.

Nat feels it.

“No - no. I wanna. I just haven't… it's been a while. I'm out of practice, is all,” Steve says quickly, because Nat is warm on top of him and the blanket has fallen back to show off her strong, porcelain thighs because. Fuck. She's only wearing underwear with that Yale sweater.

“I can do the work.” Nat’s voice is suddenly different, and she leans down again, pressing her lips to the sharp curve of Steve’s jaw line. Her breath feels so warm and close against his earlobe and  _ fuck _ that's always been a weak spot of his.

Steve only manages to squeak out a weak  _ “Okay”  _ before Nat goes to work, pressing their lips together and poking her warm tongue into Steve’s mouth. He sighs contently and pushes himself up, Nat adjusting herself to sit on Steve’s lap as their chests press together.

“Can I?” Steve wonders breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss to move his hands to the bottom of the Yale sweater. Nat nods and lifts her arms up, aiding Steve in taking off the sweater and  _ holy shit she's not wearing a bra. _

Nat’s nipples perk up at the chilled air of the apartment. Biting his bottom lip, Steve experimentally leans his head down to attach his mouth to Nat’s left nipple; evidently this move is the right one, Nat gasping deeply and her hand coming to palm at the back of Steve’s head, keeping his mouth against her.

“Steve,” Nat moans softly, and then she's trying to tug his shirt off with one hand and unbutton his jeans with the other. Steve reluctantly pulls away to let her; he aids Nat in taking off his t-shirt and jeans, leaving them both in only their underwear.

“You sure about this?” Nat wonders softly, rolling over onto her back. Steve doesn't reply; he merely crawls over Nat’s small frame, leaving trails of kisses from between her breasts up to the crook of her neck. His eyes don't miss the way her pale skin flushes an angry but beautiful pink, and he knows his skin is probably doing the same thing, their bodies suddenly not able to feel the chill of the air.

“You got anything?” Steve asks as he watches Nat wiggle off her panties down her strong legs, crossing them so that he can't see her just yet. Steve’s mouth goes dry and he follows her orders blindly, leaning off the bed to reach into the side table to grab a condom. His cock tents his boxers, fully hard, and Steve feels a bit awkward.

Nat doesn't seem to mind though. As Steve rips open the condom packet, Nat impatiently leans up and pulls Steve’s boxers down, wrapping a soft hand around his cock. Steve almost drops the condom as he lets out a choked gasp, hips jerking forward at the contact.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes going out of focus. He hasn't had anything but his own hand since high school, and Nat’s feels so damn good Steve could come right then and there. But he doesn't; instead, he lets Nat take the condom and roll it on his cock, and then she's laying back again.

Steve feels a bit overwhelmed, but he goes for it.

Nat’s warm; that's the first thing that comes to mind for Steve. That she's warm, and she keeps her sounds soft because Bucky is just down the hall, and she likes marking up Steve with her teeth. He knows he's going to get questions from Sam later on tonight.

And it's good. Great, actually. Nat giggles and kisses and Steve gets off first, of course he does, but puts his mouth and tongue to Nat’s clit and she's done within five minutes of that, thighs shaking. His scalp aches from where Nat’s hand had been tugging on his hair.

“One time thing?” Steve wonders after a while. They're curled up on Nat’s bed, still naked and sticky and gross, but neither of them mind.

“Could be a multiple time thing, if you want,” Nat offers playfully. Her fingers dance along the hickies she left on Steve’s neck and collar bones.

“Maybe,” Steve says noncommittally.

Lately for Steve,  _ maybe  _ has meant  _ no. _

+++

_ September 12th, 2001 _

Sarah doesn’t tell Steve and Bucky what really happened up in New York until the day after. They had wondered why the teachers let them go home early, and why Bucky’s ma wouldn’t let them watch the television, and why Gemma wouldn’t say anything.

When Sarah does tell the boys, Bucky cries. He tells Steve how he heard his ma talking on the phone last night to their relatives that live up in Brooklyn, where he came from.

“I think someone might’ve died, Stevie,” Bucky says. Steve doesn’t say anything, and even though Bucky is getting bigger than him already, he tucks his head under Steve’s jaw and rests his cheek on a bony shoulder.

Someone did die. It was Bucky’s uncle, on his ma’s side, one of her five other siblings. The funeral isn’t for a while, because his uncle’s body took a while to find. There was a lot of damage. Steve saw the photos in the paper and then hid it from Bucky so he couldn’t see what his uncle had been buried under, because Bucky once told him he and his uncle used to go fly kites in Central Park.

Bucky doesn’t go to school the week after, because he has to go up to Brooklyn with his family. Steve stays with his ma and plays with Sam and Peggy and they talk about how much they miss Bucky, and how playing doesn’t feel the same without him. Steve agrees but doesn’t say anything else, because he’s afraid that if he did, he’d say stuff about he doesn’t feel as warm anymore.

Sarah takes Steve to church that Sunday, like usual, and they pray and send those prayers to the families that lost people in the attacks on the 11th. Steve thinks about Bucky’s family a lot and tries not to cry during the service like Sarah is, because none of the men and other boys are crying, even though everyone looks like they want to.

After church, Sarah takes Steve to get lunch at the diner, and he gets to take home his soda in a paper cup and he’s allowed to keep it in his room, which never happened before. He figures Sarah is feeling a bit loose, because when they get home she goes to sleep on the couch.

Steve takes the soda up to his room, and sleeps too. He forgets about the soda on his dresser. He keeps it there until Bucky gets back; when Steve takes the cup off to throw it away, there’s a ring on the dresser, and the wood is rotted.

Bucky comes back, and he isn’t the same.

“I wan’ ya t’hold me, Stevie,” Bucky says. He’s on Steve’s front porch. He still has his travel backpack on. His Brooklyn accent is thick again.

“Yeah, okay.”

+++

“You got somethin’ you wanna tell me, Nat?” Bucky wonders.

He’s laying in bed, with his earphones in, and Nat is standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

“Y’know, I got that jacked up hearing from the military. Honed my senses, alla that stuff, I dunno, it’s weird. But the point is, I can hear things better now, and I don’t really like takin’ my earphones in the toilet, y’know that.”

“James,” Nat sighs. Bucky just keeps staring up at the ceiling.

“Coulda told me, yeah? I didn’t even know he was comin’ over. And then you go and fuck him. Makes me feel weird, Nat.”

“I’m sorry.”

+++

Sam does see the hickies on Steve.

“Where’d you get those from, you sly dog?” Sam laughs, poking at them. He’s got his jacket on to go out with Clint tonight, something about a basketball game, Steve doesn’t know. Steve flinches away and blushes, and it’s embarrassing because when Steve blushes, his whole face gets red.

“Natasha,” he admits shyly.

“No shit? Nice one, man!” Sam claps Steve on the shoulder, all manly-like, with the widest grin on his face. “Didn’t know you had it in you. I mean, Peggy was one fine piece of ass, she still is, but  _ Natasha --” _

“Yeah, Sam, I get it. Go have fun with Clint. I gotta catch up on some homework.”

And so Sam does leave, and Steve is left alone in the apartment again because he doesn’t have a damn social life and the depression is only getting worse. He takes his meds and does some yoga and takes a shower, trying to keep things all balanced and self-care like, but it’s not really working like he was hoping. And instead of doing his homework, like Steve said he would, he goes and lays down in bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the turning point 
> 
> warnings in the beginning for mentions of self harm, suicide attempt, substance abuse, and overdose
> 
> warning for a very explicit sex scene between two consenting minors (ages 16) starting at "december 25, 2008" 
> 
> hope you enjoy xx

When Natasha had first met James, she hadn't known his name was James. She knew him as _That Guy With The Sailor Mouth and Wicked Hands and Fingers and Even More Wicked Tongue_ because she met him at a party. Neither of them knew whose house they were at, but they went upstairs and fucked anyway, and then Nat said _My name is Natasha but I don't like Natasha so please call me Nat_ and James hesitated before saying _I’m James._

James calls Nat names like _dame_ and _sweetheart_ like he's from the goddamn 1930’s, and with any other guy it would be damn annoying, but Nat finds it probably too charming for her own good. They become best friends and that's how Nat becomes friends with Wanda, since Pietro is James’ roommate. James and Nat fuck more, and then they move in together, and if someone asked they'd be too stubborn to admit it but. They definitely love each other.

Which is why Nat is getting really worried about James.

She doesn't know much about James’ life before college or before the military. Usually when she asked early on, he'd just kiss her hard and that was James’ polite silent-type way of saying _Please don't make me talk about this please please anything but this distract me thank you –_

So she's getting worried again. Last time she was worried it was because he was secretly abusing drugs, and then ended up OD’ing and was in the hospital. Before that he was hurting himself, and she knows from his medical files that she nicked that when he was 17 he tried to kill himself, and then he did it again at 18 two months before he was supposed to graduate high school.

Nat supposes James is the most tragic person she's ever met, from his lost past to his nightmares to the dog tags he still wears.

And she adores Steve, because there’s no way she couldn’t. He’s like a labrador was stuffed into a human’s body. But he also makes James go silent, and hide in his room, and have nightmares. Nat didn’t even know Steve had been some part of James, in that life he never told her about, before that night at the bar.

“The guy at the bar. I knew him,” Bucky had said quietly, flesh arm draped over Nat’s bare chest that night. His breath still smelled like vodka and cherries.

“Who was he?” Nat wondered, even though she already knew - but she meant who was Steve to James.

“His name is Steve.”

They hadn’t said anything else. Bucky kissed her again to shut her up, and then Nat forgot about it as much as she could, but it was getting hard to just ignore it. She had tried searching Steve up on Facebook, but there were no results, and that was the furthest Nat was willing to go before she became a creepy stalker.

Nat knows James hasn’t been talking to his therapist, because he comes home and goes to sleep instead of cooks or writes.

She just wants to know what the hell happened.

+++

  
_June 19th, 2005_

Bucky is thirteen years old now and Steve’s cheeks keep burning red hot because Bucky is so much bigger than Steve now and it's starting to get weird.

For the most part, of the years they've known each other, Steve and Bucky have been the same size. Maybe Bucky was a little pudgier and obviously had room to grow, while Steve stayed sick and skinny and short. But now Bucky’s a “preteen”, and he’ll be going into 7th grade while Steve’s just now getting into 6th.

Growing up scares Steve. He doesn't talk to anyone about it, not even Bucky, and he doesn't plan on it because Bucky is so excited to get older. Sometimes he talks about going into the army and sometimes he talks about being a teacher, but most of all he just wants to be taken seriously after all these years of piano lessons. Because if there's one thing Bucky is good at that Steve never will be, it's playing piano.

But lately, for Steve, growing up hasn't just meant getting into middle school and watching his best friend get taller than him. Growing up means he feels a bit weirder sitting next to Bucky in church when Mr. Pierce talks about how being a homosexual is wrong, even though Steve doesn't really know what being a homosexual is. He would look it up but there was nothing in the library and he doesn't ask his mom things like that and they have no internet.

Maybe he just feels weird because Mr. Pierce mentions sex and Steve doesn't really know anything about that. He knows Bucky does because he had sex education last year in sixth grade.

At least, that's what Steve tells himself. He tells himself Mr. Pierce’s words don't make his stomach turn, but it does especially when Bucky climbs in bed with him at night or holds his hand or kisses his knuckles. He tells himself that Bucky only doing these things at night, in the dark of Steve’s bedroom, has nothing to do with what Mr. Pierce has been saying. Steve tells himself it's just because Bucky is growing up, he's losing interest in curling up with with Steve, they're getting too big to both fit in the bed, he can hold himself now.

The only thing Steve can't deny is that Bucky makes him feel warm. And that over the years and the older Bucky gets and the taller he gets, Steve feels warmer and white hot under the sheets when Bucky is home, down the street.

Steve doesn't know what this is.

+++

  
Steve gets to talk to Peggy for the first time since the beginning of June and it makes him cry.

She cries too. They're on a Skype call, and she's still got her deep red lipstick on from work, and her hair is still perfect as always.

“God, Peg, I miss you so damn much,” Steve says. He wishes more than anything that he can reach into the screen and give her a hug and kiss her one more time. What they had, back in high school, ended with a firm tone of finality when Peggy had announced she was going overseas after they graduated. The two of them had been bouncing off each other, kept exploring and entertaining, and then it was over.

Steve loves Peggy. God, he loves her. He's absolutely sure that he loves her in any universe that exists and if he doesn't, then it's a damn crime.

“I miss you too, Steve.” It's a lot harder for him to hear her with the combination of poor connection and her crying, but he can make out the slightest twinge of an incoming accent.

“So where are you?”

“I’ve found myself some roommates. You wouldn't believe it, Steve, I live in London. It's a pretty shitty part but it's brilliant,” Peggy says. Her voice is lovelier than ever. Steve misses her. “One of them is named America, and the other is Kate.”

“That's amazing, Peggy. I’m really happy for you.”

“Well, enough about me. How are things going in the big city? Are you going to be rich enough to woo me again within the next ten years? Might even leave my future husband for you.”

Steve laughs, but it dies pretty quickly. He knows she can see the way his eyebrows pull together and his mouth sets in a hard line, but Steve’s never felt like he has to hide his emotions around Peggy like he does with Sam.

“It's, uh. Not going so well, Peg,” Steve admits after a moment. “A lot has happened.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Um – I'd say it's. Debateable.”

Peggy lets Steve take his time before he says anything. He shifts on his bed, a little lower so that his ass doesn't go numb, and he doesn't care if he suddenly has a double chin or just looks ridiculous in any way. The feeling of having to constantly look good for someone kind of goes away when you're a confused mess as you lose your virginity to each other, and then cry about it afterward.

“It's Bucky,” he finally says. That's all he's able to say without spouting out word vomit, because his heart is going a million miles an hour right now.

Steve doesn't think he's ever seen Peggy look so shocked.

“Bucky Barnes? James? James Buchanan Barnes? James I-Will-Lay-My-Life-Down-For-Steve-But-Wait-My-Da–”

“Peggy.”

“Okay, sorry. Yeah. Anyway, what do you mean it's Bucky? Steve, what does that mean.”

Sometimes Steve forgets that Peggy grew up with Bucky too, just like he and Sam did. Peggy and Bucky weren't exactly close, somehow managing to fight for Steve’s affection all the way back to when they were ten years old, but still. They grew together and Peggy and Bucky managed to have a unique friendship that involved both brawling outside the diner and hiding away somewhere during summer nights, just the two of them, to talk.

He never knew what Peggy and Bucky talked about, and he probably never will know. And that's fine with him, because Peggy never had a lot to herself back then when dealing with three other boys. Steve supposes what was said under the stars should be kept there, heard by animals and nobody and nothing else.

And so he tells her what happened. She tries not to laugh when he says he threw up, but then looks concerned and sympathetic within the next second, so Steve doesn't take it too personally. By the end of everything, including what Nat told him a few weeks back after the dinner, Peggy was in tears again.

She always missed Bucky too.

“What are you going to do, my love?” she asks softly, and that's it right there, the whole thing that stabs Steve in the heart. Peggy’s always sounded so grown up to him, wise beyond her years, accepting like his mother. She understood more about anything than he ever did, understood more about he and Bucky than Steve himself could never comprehend. And when Peggy asks him what he's going to do, and calls him her love like she did growing up - Steve has never felt so hopeless.

“I don't know,” he confesses, “he doesn't – we don't talk. I don't know.”

“You know I love you, right, Steve?”

“‘Course I do, Peg. I love you too.”

“Then, please. Figure this out. Because I’m not there to help you anymore.”

  
+++

_December 25th, 2008_

Steve’s bed feels cold. The window next to him lets in the draft of winter air, which is only made harsher by the snow falling outside.

Christmas morning.

It's Steve’s sixteenth Christmas morning and this year everything feels a bit strange. The bed feels too empty because Bucky is down the street with his family, at his own house. He's going to be coming over to give Steve his gift, something he apparently spent a lot of time on.

He's struggling to sleep and Steve’s miniature clock on his bedside table reads 2:03AM when there's a tap on the window. Steve sits up quick, turning to look outside and. Bucky’s standing down there in the snow, wearing only a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants and his rain boots, holding a handful of pebbles.

Steve sits up more and struggles to open the window, because some frost has gathered in the cracks, but he manages.

“Buck, what’re you doing?” Steve tries to stay as quiet as he can, but Bucky is two floors below.

“Can I come up?”

“Why aren't you home?”

“Please?”

Bucky didn't have to beg any more than that, of course he didn't. Steve closes the window with a struggle and then gets out of bed and goes downstairs as quickly as he can, feet light on the hardwood floor.

Bucky looks about on the brink of death when Steve lets him in, his lips a bright red going on blue and his skin paler than ever. He has snowflakes in his dark hair and Steve wants to brush them away but they melt quickly once Bucky gets into the heat.

“Can I stay here? Just for a little bit. I – I wanna lay with you,” Bucky says softly, his voice shuddering because his body hasn't completely recovered.

“Buck –”

“Please, Stevie? I know – I know we don't really do that stuff anymore but. I need this. I – I need you, okay? So, please?” Steve stares up at Bucky, who's gotten so much taller than him it's ridiculous. Bucky’s eyes are wide and greyer than ever before, something behind them that Steve can't identify.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve finally says, and they go upstairs. Steve locks his bedroom door just in case his mom wants to try and check on him – she loves Bucky but she'd just send him home – and then he gets back in bed. Bucky’s kicking off his rain boots as fast as he can, like if he doesn't get in that bed within the next fifteen seconds he’ll go crazy. Finally the boots come off and then next thing Steve knows, Bucky’s cold body is wrapping itself around Steve’s small frame and his breath catches in his throat.

“Stevie.”

“Bucky.”

“What did you ask for for Christmas? From your ma?”

“I already told you, a new sketchbook. Why?”

“What do you actually want?”

Steve pulls away from Bucky’s arms slightly, just the top half of his body because one of Bucky’s long legs is thrown over Steve’s own. He gives Bucky a look, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“If you could have anything in the world. Anything. For Christmas. What would it be?”

“Are you okay?”

“Just answer the question.”

Bucky’s eyes are intense. They search Steve’s face and Steve can feel Bucky’s warm breath, and it smells like candy canes. They're so close.

So close.

Steve's heart pounds in his chest as his eyes move up to the ceiling. He doesn't really have to think about what he wants, because he already knows, which is maybe the worst part of the whole thing. He doesn't know why Bucky is here and why he's asking him this and why he's clutching to Steve like a lifeline.

“I dunno. It's hard to – to decide,” Steve finally manages to say. “There's a lot of things I want. Nothing more than another, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. What do you want? For Christmas. If you could have anything.”

Bucky is quiet for a long time. Steve lets him think, still just stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling that he put up years ago.

“You,” Bucky whispers, after a while.

“Me? You've already got me. I’m right here,” Steve counters, except his body suddenly floods with white-hot electricity.

 _“No,”_ Bucky growls, frustrated. “I mean _you._ I want _you.”_

“Bu –”

Steve isn't sure how it happened, but next thing he knows, Bucky is kissing him. Bucky’s lips are warm and soft and it makes a broken noise pull from Steve’s throat, and he really has no idea what's going on. He and Bucky have kissed before, loads and loads of times, just quick little things. But now Bucky’s poking his tongue past Steve’s lips and rolling on top of him and –

With a wild gasp, Steve yanks himself away, breathing hard and wide-eyed.

“Bucky? What are you doing?” His voice sounds hoarse and breathless and he and Bucky stare at each other; Bucky’s pupils are blown out, almost taking up the blue of his eyes, and it sends a shiver down Steve’s small body.

“I don't know. Can we just – can we keep doing this?”

Bucky hovers above Steve, and it's Christmas, and Steve already feels rock hard between his skinny legs.

So instead of talking, Steve reaches up and pulls Bucky down with his hand, and then they're kissing again. But this time it's like Bucky wants more more more and it's frantic and their teeth clash and their tongues slide and Steve can't breath. His brain is going on overdrive right now, and almost goes completely haywire when Bucky starts trying to take Steve’s shirt off.

For the past few minutes, Steve’s been ignoring it the best he can, but Bucky definitely has an erection. It tents his flannel pajama pants just like Steve’s own dick does, and they both stare with curiosity and fascination.

“Can we try something?” Bucky asks in a small voice. Steve knows what he means.

“I – yeah.”

They go back to kissing, but part so they can take their shirts and pajama pants off, and then they're only in their boxers. Bucky presses his hips flush against Steve’s bony ones and that's when Steve decides - this is how he’ll die happily, because there's pressure on his dick that shoots pleasure through his bloodstream like a drug and he's kissing his best friend.

His best friend that's a boy.

They let their hands roam for a while, Steve feeling how broad Bucky’s shoulders are getting, how soft and smooth he is, how he's losing the baby fat around his cheeks. Bucky’s fingers dance over Steve’s ribs like they're an instrument, and his palms fit perfectly against Steve’s hip bones.

“Can we – can we try it now?” Bucky wonders, voice shaky, like he's both scared and excited. Steve feels the same way too, and instead of responding with words (he doesn't feel like he could, anyway) he reaches down the best he can and pulls down his boxers to expose himself.

Bucky’s eyes follow the line of Steve’s body, all the way down to the patch of hair between his legs and Steve’s dick.

 _“Stevie,”_ Bucky whines, and rolls onto his side and struggles, kicking his legs as he gets his own underwear off. Then he's back on top of Steve and because Bucky looked, Steve does too. Bucky’s hair is dark, and Steve wonders if maybe the thought is weird, but Bucky has a really pretty dick. He's not sure if that's something normal boys think, but at the moment, he doesn't care.

“Do you.” Bucky swallows hard. “Do you really wanna? Do this?”

“Yeah,” Steve says without hesitation. They both nod, whispering soft _okay’s,_ and Steve notices Bucky’s entire body is shaking. Bucky props himself up with one arm, leaning low, close to Steve. Steve watches as Bucky brings a hand between their bodies, fingers trailing from Steve’s navel, down down down –

Steve gasps so hard and loud his throat goes sore as Bucky wraps a hand around him, squeezing gently. He's only ever jerked off a few times, mostly out of curiosity and just to make an erection go away, but Steve’s never really known pleasure before, until now.

“Bucky, Bucky, _Bucky, Bu –”_

“Shh, Stevie. I – I've got you,” Bucky chokes out, whining in the back of his throat as he starts moving his hand. Steve’s own fly up to tangle in Bucky’s hair, and they stare down at each other, Bucky’s eyelids half shut. His mouth hangs open slightly, red and chewed at and slick.

Steve can't comprehend why any of this – why the sudden feeling that floods Steve's body, could be considered a sin. He's got another boy’s hand on his body and suddenly they're kissing again, messy and desperate, but it feels so _pure_ and _good_ and _this is what heaven must be so why don't they want me to have it why can't I have it why –_

“Bucky - Bucky, I wanna t-touch you, p-please,” Steve stammers, his hips moving to the rhythm of Bucky’s hand. It feels so good he's got tears in his eyes and he almost cries completely when Bucky stops.

“Yeah?” Bucky murmurs, “c’mere.”

He rolls them onto their sides, getting his hand around Steve as quick as he can, and it takes Steve a moment but. He works his hand between their bodies.

At first he doesn't put his hand around Bucky. Instead he reaches down, as far as he can, and feels the inside of Bucky’s thighs, the soft hair, Steve’s fingers sliding up to Bucky’s hip bones. They’re both drenched in sweat and panting, and Bucky brings their mouths together and then Steve can't take it anymore. The angle is awkward, but he gets a hand around Bucky’s dick, and just does what works for himself. A tighter hold, slow and fast, and Bucky.

Bucky loves it.

He moans into Steve’s mouth over and over again, the sounds high pitched and desperate and it somehow makes Steve even harder.

“Stevie, _Stevie,_ oh fuck. Oh, _fuck,”_ Bucky gasps into Steve’s mouth, and Steve. He can't even talk, he can't say anything, his tongue only good for tracing Bucky’s lips. So he moans too, lets out whines and rolls his hips.

“I wanna – take away your hand,” Bucky says, frantic, and Steve follows his orders, putting his hand on the dip of Bucky’s waist. He's confused as to what Bucky’s doing for a moment, until suddenly – Bucky’s got both of them in his big hand, and Steve doesn't care if his mom might hear them. He lets out a wail, clutching harder to Bucky, hard enough to bruise the milky skin.

_“Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky –”_

“S-shit. _Fuck, yeah, Stevie._ Fuck.” Their foreheads press together and all they can do is pant into each other’s mouths, hips moving to the rhythm of Bucky’s hand and Steve feels so close. They're covered in sweat and Steve feels hotter than ever, his skin on fire, a pool of heat boiling in his belly as he gets closer.

“B-Bucky, I’m c-close,” Steve stutters, tongue heavy, eyelids screwing shut.

“Me too, fuck, Stevie. No, open your eyes, _please, I need to see –”_

Steve opens his eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, but good enough to be able to see Bucky‘s face, see the darkness of his eyes.

“Steve,” Bucky says, “Steve, I l–”

And then Steve is coming, his orgasm ripping out of him, body twisting so that his stomach and chest press flush against Bucky’s. Bucky comes immediately after, both of them coating his hand, and all Steve can do is grab Bucky’s body anywhere he can reach.

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve moans, and they keep their eyes on each other’s faces as they come, bringing their mouths together to kiss as their hips chase their orgasms.

They're disgusting. Bucky’s hand, along with their stomachs and parts of Steve’s sheets, are sticky with cum. Steve glances down and his nose wrinkles in slight disgust, but he reaches up to the bed post and grabs his shower towel and gives it to Bucky. Bucky silently wipes them down and then throws the towel onto the floor, neither of them caring; Steve just wants to be held and Bucky wants to be close.

It only takes them less than ten minutes to figure out the weight of what they've just done.

  
+++

They do it again.

And again.

And again.

They do it every time Bucky stays the night, only for Bucky to roll over after it's done, back turned to Steve without even so much as a _good night._ And then he leaves in the morning before Steve can wake up, and then during the day they pretend nothing happens.

Steve feels awful. Sarah has told him before that Mr. Pierce isn't always right, but Steve still feels sick, especially since he's able to admit he enjoys getting off with Bucky. He still feels like it's wrong to do what he's doing, to the point where he cries himself to sleep every night Bucky isn't there because all the other nights, he doesn't want Bucky to see. A huge part of Steve feels like he should be like this with Peggy, not Bucky.

The rest of him is terrified.

+++

_February 2008_

Bucky’s dad says he isn't allowed to stay the night at Steve’s anymore. Bucky’s dad looks at his son’s hands.

He hits him, for the first time in a long time, like he used to when Bucky was younger.

+++

_March 3rd, 2008_

“We’re moving back to Brooklyn.”

“What?”

“We’re moving back to Brooklyn. Mom and dad are getting a divorce and mom gets the kids. So we’re moving back to Brooklyn.”

“Are you serious, Buck?”

“Dad thinks it's for the best. I think it might be because of you.”

+++

_June 8th, 2008_

“Will you please call?”

“‘Course I will, Stevie. I can't just leave behind the love of my life.”

They hug before Bucky gets in the back seat and leaves.

Steve cries so hard he throws up.

+++

Bucky never calls. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to smoke a cigarette; he thinks maybe the laughter is almost worth his death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god you guys i am so fucking sorry for not updating but i started school and i've been swamped with trying to keep my grades as the a's they are and i have work and jghudesjfs this chapter isnt even worth the wait but WAHETVER bc im finally happy w it
> 
> yall know where to find me

A lot of the time, Steve really regrets going to school for law. 

It's expensive, and boring, and really he had chosen it just on a whim back in high school because he had no other options. What it really came down to was that just because Steve’s good at art, didn't mean he could pursue an art degree; that was a guarantee right there to end up broke and starving.

Steve supposes that it was a smart choice. He’s always been about doing the right thing, holding people accountable for their actions, stuff like that. But laying in bed next to a sleeping Sam, exhausting all mental strength to highlight his $250 textbook, just makes everything seem a lot less  _ worth it.  _ Steve grew up poor, so it's not like he knows anything but that and he doesn't really  _ mind _ not having money. He just doesn't want to have to worry someday.

So one morning when Sam’s at work, Steve takes the subway down to Manhattan and forks over $25 to get into the MET. He’s never been before and everything overwhelms him a bit; there's art in here from people his age and Steve wishes that he could get in here, someday. But he's going to be a lawyer.

The  _ Cloud City  _ exhibit makes Steve feel dizzy. He has to go to the restroom and sit in a stall and he stares on the callous on the side of his middle finger, where pencils always press. When he was growing up his hands were always covered either in granite dust or mud or scrapes, and each one was always for Bucky to blame. 

Steve wonders if Bucky’s ever been here, and then realizes it's stupid to even think that because Bucky’s lived here so many times,  _ of course _ he's been here. He’s probably come with Natasha or some other pretty girl and they had a nice night and Bucky didn't suggest a next time.

He only stays at the MET for a little over an hour before it becomes too much, then he takes the train back home and digs out his sketchbook and pencils. Steve hasn't drawn for a long time, over six months, having been stuck in an intense art block.

But now, with September coming to a close, he finally starts something.

In the end, Bucky is on the page.

 

+++

 

On October 1st, Steve cuts his hair. It's been getting a bit long again, so he trims his bangs and the sides, scratches his fingers on the dark roots. He knows they'll just end up coming out blond, having lost the dark hair gene back when he was just a few months old.

“I want you to come out with me tonight,” Sam says when he gets home from his afternoon class. Sam has it easy, or at least easier than Steve; he's majoring in psychology with a minor in political science and he's always been smart as hell, so it's not a problem for him.

“Where to?” Steve asks. His brows furrow as he stares in the mirror, raking his fingers through his bangs in an attempt to style them.

“I dunno, some fancy dinner place Nat’s family owns. Listen, Steve. It'd be nice for you to  _ get out _ for once. Plus – I’m kind of over drinking wine out of fucking coffee mugs,” Sam says. Steve looks over at Sam now, for the first time, and realizes he's actually wearing black dress pants and a white button down and looks  _ nice. _

Shit.

“Is Bucky going to be there?” Steve wonders softly, but Sam already can tell he's admitted defeat because he's actually starting to dig through a drawer for some hair gel.

It's not that Steve really wants to go, because they can't afford to eat out like this or anything, but he can also admit he's very successfully isolated himself. Since sleeping with Natasha, Steve hasn't left the house much except for work and school and that one time to the MET. Sam always does the grocery shopping and Steve feels awful about it because he's always been the domestic one, the one that cleans the house and cooks dinner, but lately Sam’s had to learn how to make more than just grilled cheese and eggs.

Steve can blame it all on seasonal depression as much as he wants, but something else is constantly eating away at him that he doesn't want to really think about. He knows it has to do with the box in his dresser and the sketch of Bucky; Steve had accidentally left it laying out on the coffee table and Sam  _ almost  _ saw it. That was a disaster in itself waiting to happen, because Steve doesn't really feel like explaining why he's drawn Bucky when they don't even talk.

It also really doesn't help that Steve has depression anyway, all on his own, summer or winter. So he can't really blame it on that.

“Yes. He’s going to be there, with the knowledge that you're on the reservation list. If Bucky can do this, then you probably can too. Or you can at least try.”

“You don't know that.”

“Steve –” Sam cuts himself off, watches as Steve stays silent and just takes a glob of green hair gel onto his fingers. “You can't keep doing this. You’re – you're driving your mom insane –”

_ “Do not  _ bring ma into this, Sam –”

“I'm just saying. She's worried. I’m worried. So can you please stop giving me premature wrinkles and grey hair and  _ go outside  _ for once? Campus doesn't fucking count anymore.”

“Fine. I’m going,” Steve snaps. He takes a deep breath and starts combing his fingers upward, styling his bangs. “I didn't say no. I’m going.”

Steve watches Sam’s reflection in the mirror, the way his friend stares down at his own feet before nodding and walking back into the bedroom. Steve’s shoulders tense; he and Sam never have actually argued or fought before and right now feels a lot like one of those.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry, yeah? I'm just - I'm nervous, okay?” Steve murmurs. There's silence for a moment before Sam comes back to the bathroom doorway. “Not even nervous. I’m scared as hell.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly, “well, if it makes you feel any better… dinner’s on the house.” Steve chuckles and nods slightly, twisting the cap back on the container of hair gel.

“That’s good, yeah.”

 

+++

 

Steve doesn’t have a suit to wear to dinner, like Sam does, but he has a white button-down and some nice black dress pants he invested in back before he started in Professor Fury’s class. 

When they get to the restaurant, all the way down in Manhattan that they had to take the subway for, Natasha is already tipsy. She gives Sam a big wet kiss on the cheek and winks at Steve, and then they follow her to the back.

Intimidation and anxiety is an understatement compared to how Steve feels; the restaurant is all dim lighting and dark walls, and the private area Nat leads he and Sam to has a fucking chandelier over the long table. Everyone from the bar is there, Tony and Clint looking overwhelmingly dashing in their suits and Bruce looking like he just wants to rip his off. Wanda is there too, with her brother, Pietro.

Steve tries his best not to look, but he can’t help himself; his eyes automatically go to Bucky, who’s talking quietly to Tony about something. He’s wearing all black and has his hair tied up in a messy bun, prosthetic and septum piercing glinting subtly in the low light. The way his hair is pulled back shows off the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his mouth; it seems he’s shaved for the event, since the last two times Steve has seen Bucky, he’s had a full 5 o’clock shadow.

Sam sits next to Natasha, so the only empty seat left is next to Bruce, which is what Steve takes. Bruce gives Steve a strained smile and a soft “hello” before gulping down the remains of his glass of wine and calling for another. Steve assumes the poor guy has even worse anxiety than him, especially being thrown into social situations like this, and wonders if Bruce forces himself to come to get over that anxiety. It probably doesn’t help as much as he likes.

Nobody ordered their food yet, because they were kind enough to wait for Steve and Sam’s arrival, but the waiters deny themselves no time to get everyone’s requests gathered. There’s food on the menu that Steve has never even seen before, despite all of his years of cooking, and it probably has to do with the fact that a lot of them are Eastern European dishes. He can’t even pronounce more than half of them, so when he points to what he wants, Natasha does it for him without any difficulty.

“I’m goin’ for a smoke,” Bucky announces after a while, standing up and walking fluidly further back into the restaurant, like he knows the place with his eyes closed. Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he actually does. Everyone carries on their conversations, but Steve’s eyes stick to Bucky’s empty seat, throat tightening and heart race increasing as the gears turn in his brain.

He waits a few moments before saying, “I have to use the bathroom.” Everyone just sort of glances in his general direction, but doesn’t pay a lot of attention; Steve sighs gratefully and then carefully makes his way down the hall that Bucky left towards. Unsurprisingly, there’s a large exit door at the end, propped open by what looks like Bucky’s suit jacket so that he doesn’t get shut out.

Steve’s legs feel like they’re going to collapse the further down the hall they carry him. If anyone stopped him and asked Steve what the hell he was doing, there’d be no way he’d have an actual answer for them. He certainly doesn’t have one for himself.

When he gets to the door, Bucky is humming. Steve can’t see him, though, so he pushes the door open a bit more, wincing as it makes the slightest creaking sound. Bucky doesn’t turn towards the noise though, just hums some more before he takes a pull from his cigarette. Steve notices Bucky’s holding it with his prosthetic fingers and wonders if it’s for irony or familiarity; the fact that Bucky had always been left-handed growing up has never been shaken out of Steve’s head.

“You’ve gotten, creepier, punk,” Bucky suddenly says. Steve’s heart stops altogether before quickening to a dangerously fast set of beats, cheeks flushing with heat. “Blonder. Taller. Where'd that muscle come from?”

Bucky’s conversational tone gives Steve whiplash. He really feels like his heart is jumping into his throat and then crawling into his mouth.

“Puberty hit?” Steve offers, “I’ve still got the… hearing issues, though.”

“So does Clint.”

“What?”

“Clint wears hearing aids. He's deaf.”  Bucky’s still turned away from Steve, so Steve can’t see the expression on his face, but the tone of his voice sounds almost mocking. 

Bucky being turned away gives Steve a new opportunity to look him over; he's wearing all black with the button-down sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the prosthetic arm and black tattoos. His flesh hand hangs at his side, fingers long and delicate, fingernails neatly trimmed and painted a soft pink. There's a few small tattoos on his knuckles that don't seem to be an extension of the sleeve on his arm.

Growing up, Bucky had always been a bit taller, his long legs always carrying him further than Steve’s could. He's got to be at least six feet now, legs looking endless in the black dress pants, the black shirt showing off the broadness of his shoulders and dip of his spine. Bucky had never necessarily been a big kid, always slender and more athletic than anything; now Steve can see the slight muscle build on the flesh arm.

“Can I try?” Steve asks after a few moments of silence as he watches Bucky take a pull from his cigarette. Finally Bucky looks over at him, eyebrows raised in surprise before slowly opening his mouth just a tad and letting the smoke drift out.

“Thought you had asthma,” Bucky muses.

“I’ve got my inhaler.”

“You’re askin’ for trouble, ain't you?” Steve doesn't say anything, just stares back. “You've always been a bit suicidal.”

And then Bucky passes the cigarette over, careful to not let his prosthetic actually come in contact with Steve’s hand. Steve wonders if it's because the metal is cold or if because Bucky’s arm has those fancy sensors on them and he doesn't want to touch Steve.

He goes with the latter to make himself feel better.

“You've never smoked before, have ya?” Bucky wonders, because Steve is just staring at the cigarette. Steve shrugs and shakes his head.

“Don't have the money for ‘em,” he replies, and then brings the stick to his mouth, resting the orange end between his lips.

“Just breathe it in. Not t’strong, though, or you'll pass out,” Bucky instructs, sounding very amused by all of this, and he really is. He's got that familiar smirk on his face, the way his lips curl up at the ends impishly, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets.

So Steve does what he says, and then coughs violently, smoke puffing out like he's some type of dragon. Eyes watering, Steve bends over and holds his hand out, giving back the cigarette. His coughing almost drowns out the sound of Bucky’s laugh, and then Steve suddenly feels like crying. It's been  _ years  _ since he's heard that laugh, the one that's pitched a bit higher than Bucky’s voice; it echoes through the back alley, taunting Steve. Through his tears, Steve glances up to see Bucky’s nose scrunched and head thrown back a bit, eyes closed tight and mouth open.

“I just almost died and you're laughin’ at me,” Steve accuses, “not funny, Buck.”

“N-no, it was your  _ face,”  _ Bucky manages to get out, before taking a few calming breaths, mouth still stretched open on a wide smile. Steve notices with a jump in his chest that Bucky must have gotten braces sometime in the past years; his teeth are now perfectly straight, the barely-noticeable snaggletooth righted now.

They slip into silence after that, both realizing the nickname Steve called Bucky, but choose not to talk about it. It's just too easy to fall back into old habits with Bucky, Steve supposes. His throat tightens as Bucky gives him a blatant once-over, before throwing the cigarette down in the concrete and stepping on it.

“Where'd you tell them you went?” Bucky wonders.

“Uh - to the bathroom.”

“You go back first, then.” Bucky takes a deep breath, grey-blue eyes rolling up towards the darkening sky above them. “Don't wan’ them t’think ya died on the toilet or somethin’.”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly, ignoring the pain in his chest. “Wouldn't want that.”

He and Bucky share a last lingering look; if Steve didn't know any better, he'd say Bucky’s eyes were full of age-old longing, fingers twitching at his side before patting against his thigh. Steve bites his bottom lip and then suddenly he can't handle it anymore; he slips back through the door and is blanketed in the low light.

And then he actually finds the bathroom and lets himself cry for two minutes.

+++

“Ma? Is everything alright?”

Steve glances at the clock on the microwave; it's 3:23 a.m.

“Steve.”  _ That's not his ma’s voice.  _ “Steve, it’s Darlene. I –”

“Ms. Wilson?”

“Your mother is in the hospital.”

+++

Sarah has been sick as long as Steve can remember, but she never gave up or stopped working. Even when her legs didn't seem to want to work, Steve’s mother pulled herself out of bed and took a warm bath and everything was a little bit better. 

Steve has known Sarah has been getting sicker; with the lack of doctors in their hometown and expensive medical bills, she got by on at-home remedies and the occasional drive to the nearest city for a bottle of pills. He's never known exactly what she has, probably because she's always been too scared to tell him, and Steve has never really been sure he actually wants to find out.

Which is why he's never been comfortable complaining about his weak immune system and the way his eyes and ears developed. Steve used to, when he was younger and didn't know any better, but with age came realization that Sarah only ever blamed herself. She hardly even made it through her pregnancy and childbirth with Steve; the least he could do was shut his mouth and accept the glasses and ear infections.

So when Darlene, Sam’s mom, calls to tell Steve that Sarah is officially in the hospital, he just about drops to the floor. For all the years he's been alive, Steve has never once seen his mother get hooked up to medical tubes and monitors. That was always for him, especially during the winter, where she'd have to scrape up just enough money for a Christmas present because the hospital bills sucked up all their money.

Sarah really is dying this time; she's bedridden and her organs are failing, and Steve feels like he might as well just die along with her.

“I can be there. Darlene, what's the address –”

“Stay. Stay in Brooklyn,” Darlene orders. She sounds like she's about to cry. Steve brings a hand over his mouth so that she can't hear a sob, and so that Sam doesn't hear the conversation from their bedroom.

“Dar –”

“As much as you think this might help, it won't. Steve, baby.” Darlene’s got her soft voice on now, the one she used to sweet talk he and Sam into doing some type of chore before going off to play. “What your ma wants the most right now is for you to stay there and concentrate on work and school.”

“I _can't_ concentrate on work and school, though. Not knowing that my ma is hooked up to a heart monitor.”

“Just listen to your mother one last time, Steve. Heaven knows she could've used that before you left.”

Darlene doesn't guilt trip Steve, but he almost wishes she had.

He tells Sam the next morning, when Sam finds him laying on the kitchen floor surrounded by empty coffee mugs. Steve couldn't bring himself to sleep and Sam is just about to try and drag him into the shower when he blurts out,

“Your mom called. Ma is in the hospital.”

“How bad is it?”

“She hasn't got a long time.”

And then, finally, Steve lets himself cry over the whole thing. Sam pulls him up to a sitting position and rests the both of them against the lower cabinets, Sam’s strong arms wrapped around Steve’s shoulders.

+++

Steve goes to classes and work, just like Sarah and Darlene want him to, and Darlene calls him every night to inform him of Sarah’s progress. 

There is no progress. Her health regresses and she isn't capable of doing much with her tongue other than tasting hospital food, so Steve doesn't talk to her. They plan for he and Sam to visit in two weeks, to just drive the few hours to the hospital and stay at Steve’s childhood home since it's only a 30-minute drive.

The only change that's come to Steve’s life since Darlene’s call is that Nat and Bucky are over a lot more often when Sam is off work. Steve and Bucky don't talk, but they share weary smiles and exist around each other when they have to. It always makes Steve feel like he swallowed a ton of rocks, stomach heavy and throat tight, but he supposes he'll take what he can get. He keeps having to remind himself that seeing him can't be easy for Bucky either, and the way he takes constant smoke breaks out on the fire escape makes it hard for Steve to forget.

Sam, on the other hand, has no issue talking to Bucky. Through their interactions, Steve has decided that Bucky is an enigma; he displays a different personality every time he comes over. Bucky is either glowering and doesn't talk to anyone, or bounces around the house, mouth moving a mile minute. Sam never comments when Nat and Bucky leave, though, so Steve doesn't either.

So one night, when the two come over for dinner and Steve actually feels capable of saying more than two words to anyone, things seem different for some reason. Maybe it has to do with the fact that instead of an awkward wave when he came in, Bucky actually murmured a soft  _ Hi  _ to Steve before going out to the fire escape.

He's been out there for twenty minutes; Steve figures he's chain smoking. After a while more of basically third-wheeling Nat and Sam’s conversations, Steve sucks up the courage to go out to the fire escape as well, slow and shy even though it's his home.

There's already five cigarettes in the empty plant pot next to Bucky, who’s managed to slot his lean calves through the bars of the escape.

“You feelin’ alright?” Steve wonders immediately before cringing at himself; they are not teenagers anymore. He keeps reminding himself that. It doesn't work.

“Debatable,” Bucky replies. His hair is down tonight, covering his face, so Steve can't see his expression from where he's standing. “Tasha brings me here as much as she can so you and I can start talkin’ again.

“Oh,” Steve says, voice pitching slightly in surprise. “Well are you – do you –?”

“I’m alright with it, if that's what you're tryna ask,” Bucky interrupts. He still doesn't look at Steve. “I just don't think she… really  _ gets  _ it.”

“Gets what?”

“Why I – why I can't.  _ No.  _ It’s not that I can't, I just mean… why it's so  _ hard.” _

Steve swallows as Bucky takes a deep breath, the hand of his prosthesis flexing the fingers, making slight clicking sounds. The rest of the arm is covered up by a thick, oversized sweater, the color a deep blue with red designs knitted into it. It looks thrifted, if not homemade with a mother’s love.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers after a moment. “I'll go back inside and… let you –”

“No. You don't have to,” Bucky says quickly, and finally looks up at Steve. The only lighting out on the escape is the warm, low glow emitting from the windows of Steve’s apartment, so shadows cast over the sharp angles of Bucky’s face. “Stay?”

“Okay, yeah.” Steve doesn't even think about it, sitting down next to Bucky, but he doesn't slot his legs through the poles. He crosses them, his knee touching Bucky’s left thigh.

“You want one?” Bucky holds out his pack of cigarettes. Steve notices some of them are turned upside down and vaguely remembers it's a superstitious thing, then wonders if Bucky is superstitious himself.

“Um. Nah. I don't think my lungs would agree,” Steve manages, embarrassed. Bucky smiles softly before setting them back down on his thigh.

“That’s cool. I don't mind. One more for me later on,” Bucky jokes, red lips stretching over his white teeth in a grin. The late October air nips at Steve’s skin in a way he hadn't noticed before, with the lack of a jacket and only a thin long sleeve to protect him. Slight warmth radiates off of Bucky, so Steve tries to absorb that without moving any closer.

“Aren't you cold?” Steve asks after a moment.

“Not really. Are you? All that muscle mass and you ain't warm?”

“My blood never did figure itself out.”

“So you still scrawny on the inside?”

“I guess so.” Steve shrugs. “Got contacts and got bigger. Still got the soul, though.” Bucky huffs out a laugh.

“You always were a little shit. I saved your life too many damn times.” Steve turns his head to find Bucky already looking at him, grinning. Pulse quickening, Steve grins back. They stay like that for a moment.

And then Bucky’s face falls and his posture changes, shrinking, like he's pulling himself in.

“Let's not talk about it,” he mumbles.

“Okay,” Steve says softly. He tries to ignore the tug in his chest, the way Bucky’s rejection hurts.

“I don' wanna talk ‘bout it,” Bucky spits out.

“Okay.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“‘Cause it's okay, Buck.”

They fall into silence after that, Steve straining his ears to focus on the sounds of night life around them rather than Bucky’s shallow breathing. Bucky’s fingers twitch on his thighs in Steve’s peripheral vision, the contrast of shiny metal and pale, milky flesh covered in black lines.

“Keep calling me that,” Bucky whispers after a while. Steve glances over at Bucky.

“What?”

“When you -- whenever we talk or… Tasha brings me over…” Bucky takes a deep breath. “I want you t’keep callin’ me Buck. Like when we were kids.”

Steve’s heart hammers when he promises to oblige; he isn’t even sure if Bucky can hear him over the sounds of the beats.


End file.
